I wake up in a foreign bed with a pounding headache. "Not again," I say to myself. I immediately search for my phone, not bothering to check to see who I slept with last night. After I see what time it is and check my notifications, I look around the small, rather dirty room. I look back at the bed I just got out of, finding a pretty average looking boy with his shirt off. He’s still asleep. I scurry to squeeze into the tiny piece of stretchy cloth called a bodysuit and a tight pair of skinny jeans. Once I throw on my booties, I try to remember how I got into this place. That way, I can get out. It’s hard to think when you’re hungover.