Who Else Is Having an Indie Sleaze Fall! I Don’t Take Care of My Body
By Ces Lodovico | Photo by Maddie Lam
Turning 21 is an important milestone in every young, lit American’s life. It marks the beginning of TRUE freedom, in which you can walk into a liquor store or dispensary literally any day of the week and get whatever you want. And guys. It’s like this… For The Rest. Of. Your. Life. When it’s time to go out, you don’t have to go to someone’s Allston basement with leaky pipes anymore! You’ll still end up doing so, but that’s besides the point. You can go to the bar, you can go to the club, you can get touched up on by freaky dudes at said bar or club and subsequently hit them! Baby, the world is your oyster!
To celebrate this momentous coming-of-age, I’ve been getting… let’s just say… a little sloppy. A little dirty. A little… Sleazy. Sue me! It’s my god given right to blow off steam from my oh-so-difficult college student lifestyle. I’ve learned from the errors of my ways in freshman and sophomore year, and am much more familiar with my body’s limits to alcohol. Let me drink away the memory of the “classes” I need to take to “graduate,” mama doesn’t want to remember how alcohol dehydrogenase is working overtime in their stomach. Mama just wants to experience it.
But it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. If you’re like me, an Italixn neurodivergent nonbinary bisexual, these crowded club environments can get a bit overwhelming! A few Fridays ago, I made the classic blunder of going somewhere in Fenway after a Sox game. Rookie mistake, I know. It was way too packed and everyone was pushing me around and NO ONE was being nice. What did I do, you may ask? My autistic ass had a meltdown at the club. If you saw me crying and wringing my hands on the dance floor, no you didn’t. It didn’t help that they were playing music that you’d hear in a frat basement – that’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid! Girl we need to grow up, because y’all are going to be pushing 30 frat flicking to Doses and Mimosas!
No need to fret, dear reader. My night improved IMMENSELY as I got drunker. I had managed to sneak a Beatbox into the bar in my purse to top off my empty glass. Our order for the bartender, and I cannot tell a lie, was 4 margaritas and one Strawberry Sunshine (a delightful pink lemonade alcoholic concoction). Can you guess which one is mine? The pink one. Believe it, twin. We had also finally carved out a corner of the dance floor where we throw ass on each other in peace, without the presence of a fuck ugly man trying to smack it. It’s not for you. It’s for my girls. Kill yourself.
This lifestyle isn’t for the weak. In fact, I’m probably going to give up on it once my semester gets harder. But for now… I’m going to keep getting litty. I can’t tell you how many times lately I’ve woken up in the morning to a full face of makeup still on, and the morning-after poops are painful, either flowing out of your ass as liquid shit that burns or a boulder-like turd requires all your strength and all your focus as it claws out of your asshole. Like you legit feel like an mpreg dude with your yaoi baby crowning. It’s fucking wild.
In a day and age with celebrities like The Dare and Charli XCX making music about and for club culture, the indie sleaze revival really is having its moment. But when you think about it… isn’t it human nature? Haven’t we been finding ways to voluntarily make ourselves as stupid as possible since the dawn of civilization? Hell, there’s evidence in ancient China of honey rice beer as far back as 10,000 years ago and it’s also where the oldest proof of humans smoking weed has been found. If that isn’t a sign that we need to get more Chinese, I don’t know what is. Native American cultures had peyote for religious purposes, the Romans had jars of wine out the wazoo because they considered it a ‘daily necessity,’ and I have my weed pen that tastes like emails when you get towards the end of the cart. We all have our vices, we have since the beginning of time… and I don’t really care about the long-term consequences of mine.