Photos (with edits) by Natalia Joseph and Strelka Institute for Media / CC BY 2.0
Mom, you promised that if I ever felt uncomfortable at a party that you would pick me up. I know you’re in Michigan at the moment, but I need to be out of here in 15 minutes. The kids are all drinking and grinding on each other, and I’m pretty sure that there are swear words in the music. You were right, Cindy’s mom Susan was smart to only let us play the clean version of songs at our lights-on parties: this environment is vulgar.
If you don’t come pick me immediately up I’m pretty sure they are going to have me shot gun Bacardi. I know you think I’ve never had alcohol, and that’s the reason I want to leave. I can’t lie to you anymore. In high school, I had a shot of Natty Light and lost control. I can’t get drunk again, mother.
I tried to drink a glass of water to calm my nerves and fend off the peer-pressures offering me alcohol, but I put my cup down. I can’t drink out of that cup again. I’m not going to be tricked into drinking roofie water. However, I can’t get another glass because of the crowd of dirty-dancing heathens around the bar.
I know you told me that there would be boy-girl parties at college, but I imagined those parties to be like High School Musical, or, at the very worst, Grease. This bar is full of S-E-X-crazed people, and I’m worried if I’m here any longer one of them will seduce me.
So please, mommy, get here as quickly as you can, or at least send dad to get me.