PRODUCT REVIEW // P is for Porfidia: An Emerica â€œWinoâ€ review
She was the most intimidating girl on campus for several reasons: sleek almond eyes and light caramel skin like Cleopatra; one of only a few girls who knew how to dress herself interestingly; she painted—well and often; her name was Porfidia. Who even knew that was a name?
I only felt a tinkle of hope because most of the males at my shit-kicking state college lacked the sense to appreciate a girl like her. They all wanted greased T&A after the big game.
As Aaron and I trudged up the dormitory stairs to her hall on the third floor, I licked the back of my hand and contemplated puking in a corner.
"Why the hell would she ask me to come to her room?" I asked.
"Maybe she likes you."
We found her door and knocked. The sound of socked feet padding across linoleum grew near and the door whipped open. Her rather plain roommate stared at us blankly.
"Is Porfidia here?" I asked.
"Oh." I sagged.
"She went to dinner. Why don't you try back later."
It was the Friday before Thanksgiving break, and as Aaron and I scurried away we discussed who we could get to buy us booze. We found our friend Doug smoking in the courtyard. In the back of his red pickup on the way to the store, we occupied ourselves making up songs about her.
Porfidia/ I wanna get widdiyuh/you've got lots a pretty paintings/and I'd like to watch you painting.
This continued back to the dorms and into the evening as we mixed one screwdriver after the next from a large plastic tank of vodka. Eventually we stopped singing and started playing Sega. My world went grey as Shinobi III loaded, then black.
I woke up the next morning fully clothed on top of my bed. As I lifted myself upright I heard my roommate chuckling form his bed. He told me I burst through the door at three in the morning mumbling something about new pencils.
"New pencils?" I asked.
"Yeah, new pencils. Then you sat down on the floor cross-legged, in front of your backpack.