Jessica Cripps enjoys cavorting, merrymaking, procrastinating, daydreaming, and carousing. She is an expert at making questionable decisions, accumulating unsavory bedfellows, and locking her keys in the car. She collects bad habits, useless skills, and fake red flowers. She likes big words and playing make believe; She dislikes spiders and douchebaggery. Her favorite color is indigo.

Absolut Amour (March 20, 2009. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.)

If there exists one experience that can bring two people closer inside of an hour than most people become after a lifetime of acquaintanceship, it is having someone hold your hair while you vomit. That's how I met my soul mate.

I was nineteen the summer I first encountered Nicholas. It was a strange, hazy summer, the kind where it's high noon all day and the density of the night seeps into your pores. It was the summer before my first and only semester of college, the summer I had vowed to turn into my own personal "Summer of Love." Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, reckless abandon and unfettered madness. I spent the majority of those few months drunk on newly-acquired independence, teenage immortality, and, primarily, Absolut Citron. All of my friends were starving artists, and we would drink and smoke, philosophizing about the futility of existence and making grandiose plans to take the world by force, write the Great American Novel, or start a revolution. Mostly we went to rock concerts and kept a competitive tally of how many strangers we managed to seduce.

Nicholas crashed on my friend Cassie's couch one night in mid-July. I screeched into her driveway in my sorely abused Camry around ten the next morning and let myself in. Cassie and I had a mutual "no-knock-necessary" policy.

"Dude, do you have the tickets? I can't find them anywhere!" I shouted, before I was even in the door.

"Dude, do you have any goddamn common courtesy? I think my temples are caving in," came the reply, in an unfamiliar masculine voice, thick with sleep, nausea, and sarcasm. Upon entering the living room, I encountered the owner of the voice: an unkempt, scrawny, and nearly nude stranger. His chin-length hair was matted in such a way that I couldn't tell whether he had made a poor attempt at dreading it, or if he just hadn't brushed it in weeks. He had a tattoo of an infinity symbol on his right forearm. I detected the unmistakable scent of patchouli, mixed with slight undertones of marijuana and body odor. To some, the smell may have been offensive; to me, he smelled like comfort.

"And who the fuck are you?" I demanded. I was more than slightly hung over myself, and irritated because Cassie and I were due to leave for Virginia in half an hour, and I had spent the past 45 minutes ransacking my apartment in search of three crucial concert tickets.

Before Dirty Hippie, as I had named him in my head, had time to reply, Cassie shuffled into the room, looking bleary-eyed and confused. "Yeah, man, you left them here the other night. Bad news, though. Em just called. She got called in to work, so she can't go. Hey, who the fuck is that guy?"

"Um, I'm Nick. Is my car here?"

I looked out the window. "Nope. Do I know you?"

"I came over last night with Morely. Guess I crashed out. That was some party. My apologies." Even in his disheveled state, this Nick character radiated an aura of confidence and charisma that I found at once disconcerting and endearing. "What's this about an extra ticket? What's it for?"

Cassie and I exchanged a glance. "Warped Tour," she replied, raising a pierced eyebrow in suspicion.

"Word. You ladies want company?"

"Depends. Got any cash?"

Nick retrieved a pair of well-worn jeans from the floor near the couch and fumbled around with the pockets, without success. "I guess I left my wallet in the car. I've got nuggets, though," he offered.

"Good enough. Get dressed and get in the bitchmobile."

"Bitchmobile?"

"Kat's piece-of-shit Camry over there."

"Right." He looked at me. "Kat." He looked back. "And you are?"

"Cassie. Come on, we're gonna be late."

I let Cassie drive and spent the trip slinking below window-level and furtively gulping vodka straight out of the bottle. Nick packed a bowl, and he and I shared it, ate Cheetos, and sang along with "Roots Radicals" at the top of our lungs. Cassie did not take part in the revelry, but she wore a satisfied smirk. She was 21 and could drink at the show, and she understood the necessity of letting us less-than-legal delinquents pre-game on the way down. By the time we reached the venue, I was far more intoxicated than anyone ought to be at noon on a Wednesday. I made it out of the car, past the ticket takers, and almost to the merch tent before the dust, gravel, and sky started swimming.

I knelt, under the pretense of tying my shoelace, and gracefully and noiselessly deposited nearly a pint of Absolut Citron, along with most of a bag of Cheetos, directly on top of Nick's left foot. The acidic fluorescent orange lay in stark contrast to the dull gravel. Nick handled the situation with surprising aplomb, slipping his hands under my armpits and helping me to my feet. "Come on, kittykat," he whispered. "Let's get you into the shade."