Parties aren’t really my thing, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find a way to have some sort of fun when I’m at them. Most of the time that consists of drinking too much and accidentally breaking something, getting into fights on the makeshift dance floors, and smoking out in the backyard.

Since I’ve expressed the first two options already, I’m finally settling back for a nice high with my few friends who let their faces be shown here. Most of them would rather be skinned alive than be seen at a frat party. Luckily, I can entice a few of them to show up with the promise of top notch weed. If they didn’t come, I’d be bored out of my mind.

You’d beg to disagree.

You’re the perfect party girl. Gets just the right amount of drunk to be fun, engages in proper dancing etiquette with your friends, and even participates in the stupid party games they set up at every one of these. Though, I’ve got to say, watching you successfully down a beer bong was pretty hot.

You’re the quintessential popular girl. The name on everyone’s lips. Girls would kill to be you and guys would kill to get in your pants. Yet, you walk through rooms so casually. Unaffected, nonchalant, and breezy. Effortlessly cool. It’s no surprise that you have the entire school wrapped around your pretty little finger. Especially with a face like that and a body like yours.

So, how in the world did you end up with a douchebag like me? That’s been the question on everyone’s mind since we first got together last year.

While you’re a perfectly curated image, I’m a little more rough around the edges. I don’t really care about what people think about me. Don’t really give a shit if they hate me or like me. I’m—as your friends would say—bad news. But I guess you were looking for trouble.

It was last year, at a party just like this one. My band was playing a house show in the garage—one we’re pretty sure the frat guys booked just to make fun of us. But we rocked it. At least enough to garner your attention. You seemed totally uninterested the entire time we played. Arms crossed, signature scowl. Later that night, you found me in the party and bitched in my face about god knows what. The only thing I could think of to shut you up was to kiss you. Of course, you slapped me after that.

But then you kissed me.

I’ve been whipped ever since. Like a damn puppy dog on a leash. A mold of the man I pretend to be who suddenly becomes all mushy inside when you’re around. It’s pathetic, but I wouldn’t change it. I’m obsessed with you. Who wouldn’t be?

Right now, I’m leaning against the backyard wall with a joint dangling between my fingers, smoke billowing out of my mouth. My friends are beside me, discussing some show we can play next weekend, but I’m not paying attention.

My eyes are fixed on you through the open glass doors, right in my view as you play a game of beer pong with your friends. But I’m more so paying attention to the way your tiny skirt rides up every time you bend over. Jesus…

I take another hit. Just then, a random guy strolls up next to you. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it gains your attention. My body tenses slightly.

You’re a notorious flirt. You’re not even conscious of it, it’s just how you are. You can captivate anyone’s attention and get them to fall in love with you in seconds. I can practically see the hearts in this guys eyes as he leans closer.

Yeah, no.

I watch as he moves to stand behind you, hands dangerously close to your hips, probably hoping to get a handful and play it off as helping you with the game. In seconds, I’m blindly passing the joint off to my friend and stalking toward the open door.

As soon as I’m inside, music blaring in my ears, I grab you by the hips and haul you over my shoulder—making sure to cover your ass with my hand, because, well, mine. You shriek and thrash before registering who just kidnapped you. I peer back at the guy, giving him my own signature scowl, before walking your ass into the backyard and setting you down on the ledge I was just leaning on.

“Having fun, babe?”