Surprise: That Guy You Kissed Last Weekend Isn't Actually Irish

With a couple days’ passing after the whirlwind of Guinness and green shot glass necklaces that was this weekend, you’ve had some time to process just exactly what happened. There are a few things you know for sure: your shoes are no longer the white, you have mud in crevices where mud doesn't belong, and you should probably start raising an aggressive eyebrow at your recurring chainsmoking habit.

Sometime between throwing Lucky Charms at strangers, begging your friends to snap pics from all angles at your annual keg stand, and confining yourself to the claustrophobia inherent to tents made of large blue tarps, you remember an intimate interaction.

The first thing you remember about this interaction was the color... the color, if you had to guess, was... green? But then... oh, but then, you remember a sentence, a phrase, a command, if you will. This is the clearest part of the day; against a (probably) green background you see the words: “Kiss Me, I’m Irish.” You now remember when you read this on anonymous frat boy’s t-shirt, believed in it more deeply than Saint Patrick believed in his life mission of finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and immediately started kissing said boy more passionately than was probably appropriate for a darty. You both stumbled away.

But now, as you soak your shoes in a bleach solution and pick up your annoyingly green items of clothing off of your bedroom floor and return them to your closet, you remember some characteristics of said unnamed frat boy: olive skin, dark and curly hair, quiet demeanor, absence of alcohol, no freckles in sight. You feel cheated. You feel wronged. You realize-- that guy you kissed this weekend was definitely not Irish.

Better luck next year.