Why you should make out with me


February 26, 2013 by fatcai

I really really love making out, french kissing, tonguing, whatever. One time I was drunk and wanted to make out with my best friend. He wasn’t having any of it and so I pushed him down a flight of stairs. Making out. I love it, I love it, I love it and I am pretty damn good at it. In fact I am more than good at it. Making out with me could change your life. Am I exaggerating? Not a bit of it.

At the weekend there took place a small Leipzig reunion in the very WG kitchen where Fuckedupigkeit was born and where perhaps the greatest concentration of Fuckedupigkeit has taken place. Ever. A very important component of Fuckedupigkeit is making out with strangers/best friends/people of opposite gender/people of different orientations/other people’s boyfriends/the closest living, breathing object and this was done in great excess in Leipzig…mostly by me.

One of my most splendiferous make out sessions was with one of my roommate’s dealers . It was one of those wild Wednesday night parties (they really do exist!) and our eyes met across the room and the Jägermeister told me to go a hunting but I had such butterflies I could barely breathe. Dealer looked like an angel and he was smiling at me. Eventually after all sorts of awkward glances and smiles and nervousness we suddenly just decided to jump on each other and make out and it was amazing, like one of those fun sessions from when you were a teenager that lasted about 6 hours or so without coming  up for air.

Eventually some time around 6am (told you it was a wild Wednesday) my best friend woke up from his Jägermeister-fuelled whirlwind to find himself involved in some kind of bizarre homosexual French dance ritual and he was the sandwich filling. Seeking escape he found my tonsils locked with another, threw a jealous fit (this is the guy I pushed down the stairs for not making out with me one time!)and Dealer had to leave.

I never saw Dealer again. He asked for my number before he left but I was so drunk I gave him a random assortment of numbers, the first ones that popped into my head and that probably didn’t together make anything even vaguely resembling a phone number. 546513131. A few days later I plucked up the courage to ask my roommate for his number but it was already out of use. I panicked. I was now one of those terrible women that are in every chic flick and magazine column ever and the reason I do not associate much with people of the same gender as myself that repell and terrify men with the suffocating desperation they excrete from every pore they are trying too hard with. It was a terrible time.

A couple months later, we are discussing drugs in some way then my roommate mentions that she hasn’t used anything in such a long time because her dealer has disappeared off the face of the earth; no-one has seen or heard of him since that wild Wednesday. I realise I was so drunk that night that if I saw him in the street I wouldn’t even recognise him although at the time I was so taken with him I broke it off with my Polish fuckbuddy.

A short while after came the best news I have possibly ever heard, we had news of the Dealer: after the party he decided he didn’t want to deal anymore and went underground for a few months to clean up, cutting himself off from all the old contacts to help him on a better path. No-one said it but I knew that the trigger for this was obviously a bit of mouth to mouth from me. Making out with me had obviously instantaneously changed his life and set him on the path to righteousness.

Need more proof? Well as I said at the start of this unashamedly arrogant and self-glorifiying piece, I was at the Fuckedupigkeit reunion in Leipzig. Since that year we have all moved on to bigger and better things, we graduated our Bachelors, we are now doing Masters or working…with one exception. My German roommate. After we left Leipzig he spent a good two years finishing his Bachelor thesis, spent a fair amount of time bumming around and now has made the decision to become a full-time drug dealer. He is the only one from the Leipzig days whom I didn’t make out with! Point proven. Game. Set. Match. Please form an orderly line in front of my lips.


2 thoughts on “Why you should make out with me

  1. thefroglyprince says:

    It does seem like you have scientifically proven it. I’d set up a kissing booth if I was you.

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