After a string of nighttime pedestrian accidents, the College Park City Council has approved a bill extending the hours for speed cameras on Route 1. 

Friday night, my friends and I put together our best costume to date: Mario Kart.

However, last year’s seven dwarfs costume still goes down in the record books as pretty “dope” (I’ve come to love this adjective), especially during flip cup when we relentlessly chanted the “Hi ho” song after every victory.

Excuse our “soul zapping” eyes. I swear we won’t use our powers for evil. Perhaps only to warm up glasses of hot cocoa during the winter or to destroy the entire human race. I mean…

Friday night. We’re pretending to ride our karts along the street, and all of a sudden, a man comes up behind me and snatches one of my three yellow balloons with sprinting, shoulder-pushing marathon speed. I was tied for first place at this point in battle mode and was not about to lose because of theft.

Bowser surged through my core and within seconds I had caught up to the thief. He was out of breath, but I was filled to capacity, to the point of no return. I spewed fire all over the bandit, snuffed out his existence and regained what was rightfully mine: a singular banana-yellow latex balloon. His friends looked upon me with idolization and horror and offered me diamonds, beers and Pizza Mart pizzas for the reversal of their friend’s demise.

In real life, I asked for it back and walked away. Then we went out and had a rousing time, my kart broke in half, my balloons were popped (sounds like a sexual euphemism, is not), and I spent the night on a couch at a friend’s place. But before falling asleep, I washed the green and orange from my face with brute force and changed into a men’s T-shirt and basketball shorts, with less strain.

I awoke at about 11 a.m. My phone was dead and I had no means of contacting my roommates or entering my apartment. Luckily, I found my friends’ location: Bagel Place.

For those of you who have never entered Bagel Place on a weekend, just know that it’s rampant with college students and other patrons. Saturday/Sunday schmear day (schmear is another word for cream cheese spread; do not also make this weird) and is indeed a dubbed “thing.”

I exit the vehicle I was driven in with Bowser shell and costume pieces in hand. My hair has faded to a rotten tangerine orange, my clothes are seven sizes too big and my face is pale, scratched from over-scrubbing and exhausted-looking. I. Look. Amazing. Ly. Terrifying.

I open the door avoiding any immediate eye contact from customers and pinpoint my friends’ table. It’s at the front, near the cash register and a long line of people waiting to be served. Six of my friends are eating breakfast.

“GOOD MORNING, GUYS!” I yell.

All six friends look up from their bagels and burst into laughter. Customers stare in disbelief and whisper to each other. I rest my hands on my hips, completely shameless.

It looks like I just took a stroll through fiery pits, car washes, makeup-diminishing factories and Michael Jordan’s walk-in closet. I’m obviously flustered and my friend asks me “Shea, why is your face so red?” I don’t know, SCHMEAR EMBARRASSMENT, MAYBE?

And then I realize what everyone thought happened last night because of my dress, and well, kerfuffled hair. Everyone thought I’d hooked up with some dude, walked home from it like this and met my friends to divulge the juicy details.

Little did they know I just fell asleep, drooled on a pillow and dreamed about getting insulted at a dinner party.

I audibly, yet subduedly shouted “I slept on a couch alone” to the restaurant.

Two chicks sat upon brown sugar bags to my left and said to me “You have a lot of confidence. And no shame.” I said something along the lines of “Yeah, I’m confident” and then talked about how baller my costume was the night previous as justification for my disastrous appearance. I couldn’t tell if they were making fun of me or were genuinely proud of me for not giving a f—, but I let them have their fun.

I guess I’ve never really taken the “walk of shame” or “walk of shame into Bagel Place” before. I’ve been in a dress on a Tuesday night and woken up on a Wednesday morning and went to class all day in heels and formal garb but never had to walk anywhere in baggy, disheveled glory. There were a few laughs, a few judgmental looks, that-one-chick-from-Juno faces and a few whose body language suggested “Carry on, sweet child.” But mostly I received “OMG, is she serious? So embarrassing! We know what you did last night” responses.

Maybe this will start the man-trend of owning a stash of Soffe shorts, sweat pants, PacSun zip-ups and slim-fit tees. Or the human-trend of just not going into Bagel Place looking like straight shit.

I’d say the latter.