And you…are the wolfettes

Freshman year, the girl that lived down the hall from me asked the cleaning lady to not even bother coming into her room because basically, it was un-cleanable. The floor was not visible under the beer cans and someone was constantly in her room that had been drinking since at least 10am.
Obviously, we connected instantly. The state of her room should have tipped me off to the state we would get in when we hung out, but the thing was, the impression she did of my roommate (who at the time, I found insufferable) was spot on, and she always offered me free beer. The basis of a good friendship.
So sometime in my first month of college, I found myself with her in a house which was dubbed (by the boys that lived there) the “wolf den.” One of the boys referred to himself at the alpha wolf…there was definitely some Napoleon complex shit going on, because he was about five foot four and yet still had a weird hold over the rest of his roommates (and admittedly, us). One night, he looked at us super seriously and said “I’m the alpha wolf…this is the wolf pack…you’re in the wolf den…and you guys…are the wolfettes.” Glances were exchanged briefly before we nodded our heads in agreement. I think we had been inducted into a cult?

It became a tradition every Saturday morning that we would wake up hungover, go to brunch, piece together what happened at the wolf den the night before (“I think the kid I made out with was Middle Eastern” “WHAT…he was Italian, get out of here.” “We didn’t make out in front of anyone!” “Girl…everyone saw you…your feet were off the ground for most of the night” and so on.) After the unfortunate stories came to light, we vowed to never, ever, go to the wold den ever again.

By the end of brunch, we were discussing what we would wear to the wolf den that night.

But really, I should have stopped going. Let me start this next part by saying I went through a weird time freshman year where I exclusively kissed red heads over 6 feet tall. Why? WHY? I don’t know. I’m not proud, but this one particular redhead was introduced to me in the wolf den so I should have ran for the hills. But seriously, the air in that house was thin and I can’t confirm that there wasn’t something extra in the kegs.

The following texts are the basic jist of what I remember one Saturday morning after the wolf den:

Me: hey…can you come let me back into the dorm?
Fellow Wolfette: wait, what?
FW: I literally tucked you into your bed last night wtf?
FW: where are you?
Me: Come outside I’m with a large redhead you literally can’t miss us.

I’m not proud of any of this and to make it even worse, I showed back up into our dorm with my shorts on backwards, which looked bad, but when I got dressed for bed the night before, I was really, really, drunk. No one believes me to this day, but it wasn’t how it looked, I swear.

Eventually, we really did stop hanging out at the wolf den and my fellow Wolfette and I had a falling out that lasted until Junior year (where we discovered we were neighbors once again, and we picked up where we left off). But our falling out didn’t occur until after we had had many, many more weird experiences worth writing about, like the time she put on a full tuxedo to perform a duet with a girl in our dorm who was really passionate about Victor Hugo.

But a good blog post always leaves you wanting more, so that’s a story for another day.

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