Social Streakers for Walsh 403

Building friendship
on stolen decor,
scraps of newspapers
tape our walls,
when you see
NO DRINKS BEYOND THIS POINT
you better believe
this is homecoming.

Welcome to
the social masochist's Eden,
a wonderland
of leopard print,
Kelis soundtracks,
plastic vodka,
and a 50% sobriety rate.

Enter the trance
of petty destruction--
stolen meeting signs,
bolted doors,
searing chocolate,
our own Fight Club.

Boys transform
with every themed party,
another shot,
a new head.
They don't get
"Christmas in the Future"
but the neon skyline
of predator photo shoots,
exhaled confessions,
slip 'n slide breakups
is just enough metallica.

Come.
And we'll crash the Upper East Side.
Come.
And we'll beat up the entire bar for chapped knuckles.
Come.
And we'll climb the speakers to our own beat.
Come.
And we'll make out with your little brother.
Come.
And we'll make drugs into pink cupcakes.

As the list shrinks,
our fur grows,
a dorm turns into a legend,
a den turns into dare or double dare,
our battered kitchen,
our clogged pipes,
the beaten down beds,
our newspaper Picasso,
a charmed ethos.


Show us the dread of tomorrow
and we'll make it a drinking game.
Show us the scars of the past
and we'll make it a grocery list.
Even after move out day
I still live here,
with my five home girls.
Sunday morning with one
grind chain of a story to tell.