Nina is my OG alter ego.

She was born in Brooklyn and raised on the wild streets of Manhattan—specifically Midtown East circa 2011–2016 and the Financial District from 2017–2018, where she met Master Josh, her best friend Natasha’s now-husband. (Note: Natasha is also an alter ego—we were and are a great duo.)

I thought Nina died when she did a little too much cocaine and Josh and Natasha moved to Buffalo.

But no. Nina is risen. And she has also moved to Buffalo.

She was resurrected this past weekend by a 30mg extended-release Adderall, Mexican holy water (aka tequila), and a new phallic cornhole game called “Cornhole After Dark,” created by our friend’s mom.

(Don’t worry. Details and pictures are coming soon.)

It was all fun and games—literally and figuratively—until the Bills lost to the gay Pats, Nina took two hits of Randy’s extremely potent weed pen, and both Mary and Nina got their first concussion.

So this blog is going to be bulleted and divided into pre- and post-cuss, and further layered by pre- and post-Adderall and pre- and post-Mexican holy water.

I cannot overwork my brain trying to form cohesive thoughts.

Pre-Cuss / Pre-Adderall

• I, Mary, was feeling solid despite going to Pacha NYC Friday night for a Sofi Tukker concert, getting home at 5 a.m., and then catching a flight to BUF at noon.
• Sunday, I woke up at 6 a.m. and made the tailgate crew breakfast sandwiches. Yes, I can cook. Wife me up. Please. Please?!?!
• We had a 30-minute ride to the tailgate at 8:30 a.m. for a 1 p.m. game. About halfway there, I was hit with a wave of exhaustion and asked Josh for an Adderall. He handed me a pill, and I took it—no questions asked.
  • Josh: “Did you split the pill?”
  • Mary: “What do you mean?”
  • Josh: “That was 30mg. That’s like 3x what you normally take.”
  • Mary: “WTF. You did not give me any instructions.”
  • Josh: “Yeah, you’re right. Whoops. You’ll be fine.”
  • Mary: “Oh fuck.”

Pre-Cuss / Post-Adderall / Pre-Mexican Holy Water

• The game’s marketing team joined our tailgate to get content and photos to promote the new game.
• You cannot give me, Miss Peggy, a dildo (despite it being made of cotton and beans) and not expect me to demonstrate what I do best: get men to try it.
• Nina flipped my fanny pack around and secured the dickbag to the front of my body with the fanny strap, directly over my moose knuckle. (Yes, I have a fat ‘puth-sy’.)
• When the Adderall hit, I immediately became both the marketing and creative intern and the star of the shoot. I was yelling, directing shots, pulling people over to play the game, and twerking for content. I haven’t twerked since 2018.
• I was gyrating and helicoptering the dickbag, jumping and flopping it up and down, then swinging two dickbags like nunchucks.
• Probably my most memorable—but not finest—moment: I was twerking with my hands on the cornhole board, slipped into a split, and continued twerking. Unfortunately, I put too much weight on the board, the legs broke underneath me, and I smashed into the ground.

Pre-Cuss / Post-Adderall / Post-Mexican Holy Water

• In the stadium, I was telling people I had been hired for the day as a personal masseuse and offering massages to people around us.
• I taught the 12-year-old sitting behind me how to say “puth-sy”—“pussy” in a Castilian Spanish accent. I asked his parents for permission, of course. I’m not a monster.
• I allowed Randy to shove a chicken parm hero into my mouth while Blain encouragingly said, “I know you can open wider than that.”
• Josh wanted me to give Randy a wet willy because I was sitting behind him. I seductively whispered into his ear and asked if he wanted my finger or my tongue. I don’t recall what he said, but I used my tongue.
• On the way home on our Bills party bus, Josh and Nikki did cocaine off my boobs. I was having a particularly good pre-period boob day, so there was more surface area than usual. Had I been a little drunker, I would have taken off my bra and offered the nips.
• I had Josh’s and Randy’s fingers shoved into my throat to demonstrate that I have no gag reflex.
• I gave Randy a handy above his pants. Unfortunately: flaccid.

This is when I took two hits of the weed pen.

I’m getting lightheaded just thinking about it and writing this.

Post-Cuss / Post-Adderall / Post-Mexican Holy Water + Lots of High Noons

• Walking off the bus, I blacked out, fell backward, and hit the back of my head on a plastic table. Mind you, I am a fairly responsible—and usually fully to semi-fully cognizant—drunk. I have never blacked out in my life.
• I came to a little bit, said I was okay, took a few steps, and passed out again.
• Apparently, my friends knew I had a concussion because I had the Tua T-rex arms.
• I came to after a few minutes and proceeded to do the following:
  • Asked if I was now going to be dumber.
  • Asked if I would die if I fell asleep. My friend said no, and I told them to let me sleep. They did not.
  • I cry-laughed. It’s a weird emotion where you are simultaneously laughing and sobbing hysterically. I equated it to being filled with the Holy Spirit when I was in second grade at the Taiwan Center in Queens, NY. This was my mom’s only proud moment of me, and she still remembers it vividly to this day.
  • Confessed my love for Buffalo and asked Josh if I could live with him and Natasha for a month. He said no.
  • Made Natasha measure the circumference of my head to prove that I have a big head. It’s 24 inches.
  • Caressed Josh’s face with my feet while wearing the socks I had worn all day.
  • Slept on two dog beds:
    1. Laying down on my stomach—my preferred sleeping and fucking position.
    2. Criss-cross applesauce in the corner underneath the table because Josh and Natasha wouldn’t let me sleep.
  • Josh went in for a hug, and I choked him and used his head as a pillow.

All of this happened before 11 p.m.

The next morning, I woke up in so much pain.

Not from my head, where I hit the table.

Not from the bruises on my back from falling backward.

Not from the bruise on my knee from breaking the cornhole table.

Not from my right ankle, which I rolled jumping up and down while flopping the dickbag around.

No.

It was my inner and outer thighs, my lower back (specifically the right side, courtesy of sciatica), and my abs.

From twerking like a 22-year-old from the deep hood of Brooklyn.

I am 37.

But ratchet Brooklyn is in my DNA.