Michelle and Rachel go into the bedroom and change into sweats. Zik and I just strip off our tux jackets and ties. We order junk from room service before they shut down for the night: hot wings, potato skins with artery-clogging cheese and bacon, fried mozzarella sticks with marinara, and thick slices of cheesecake with fruit sauces drizzled on top. We stuff ourselves with the lights out, the Tv playing a goofy romantic comedy on pay-per-view, and as we all get more and more tired and giggly, the room devolves into stupid jokes, laughter, endless snickering at half-remembered silliness from our shared childhood. I feel like my gut's going to explode from the laughing and the enormous quantity of calories I'm inhaling, but I don't care. I'm with my friends and it feels good. "...the Spermling looked like he was gonna tackle you," Rachel says to Michelle. "Oh! My! God!" Michelle squeals. "I know!
