Press To Paparazzi

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"Hunter Frag, 19, and the newest pledge of the fraternity, was earlier spotted lurking under the kitchen island, and has now been found in a rather compromised position with Lisa Heidi, the thirteen months steady girlfriend of the president himself. The two left a series of evidence in the form of a pair of pants and a blush pink bralette top and coordinating skirt, hanging off the master bedroom door knob. Meanwhile, the cheated on boyfriend is suspected to be lying in a bath tub full of beer, crying his sorrows to the Delta Gamma sorority sisters, who on another news, have been multiple times accused of luring frat boys into a manicure cult- statement duly authenticated by Peter Yeun, who doesn't remember stocking his dormitory with the premium collection of Maybelline New York.

   Now to answer the looming question of the hour-whether Hunter will confess to his crimes or continue to wear his pin with pride? I personally believe that..." my back collides with a mini refrigerator and lands on the tequila soaked floor along with a white grainy powder sticking in my nail beds. Unaware of the camera rolling all the while, I turn behind and begin to stack the unsealed packets enclosing the powder. "This would make such news if it were coke," I chuckle, a tad bit hammered on the insistence of my best friend, who is slacked on the velvet couch, hooked on the finale of America's Top Model.

  Once everything is back in it's place, and appears satisfying enough to calm the tingling of my OCD stricken senses, I lie back down on a bean bag next to the front door, watching the packed crowd blur to a sheet of black. "Taking leave to the land of snoretown now, your very own God Damn Independent, Naomi Ty."

With the parting message, I find my head leaning back on the chipped off plaster of the wall, staying intact until one of the party animals' beer breath makes me want to pull a blanket onto myself. Attempting to pull at the hem of my leather skirt in futility, I force my eyes open to the milky orange filtering through half cracked windows, fawning over the passed out crowd and dozens of cigarette butts.

  I mindlessly guide my hands to the phone zipped safe in my fanny pack, writhing my eyes at the variety of banners masking over mine and Kiara's snap filter baby faces on the lock screen.

"SSU's biggest revelation of 2019  : o"

"You go girl!"

"What an attention hogging bitch 🙄"

"Kudos to Naomi Ty for showcasing the brash reality of the junkies of these university supported frat houses. #wedemandaction."

"Hmmm," I close it back up, grimacing at the fuzzy aftertaste the fruit punch has left on my tongue, and end up biting on it as reality hits my senses like a bullet train running past asphalt tracks. My wobbly knees stumble back to the floor while I scramble to push my Twitter open to verify if I read any of that right.

As I try make it past the huddle of hundreds of notifications to open that one message that had my heart in my mouth, the matter becomes more and more clear, scaling my heartbeats in sync with the characters of the numerous tweets updated by the authorities of my college- The Sydney State University.

  They speak about a bulleted list of repercussions the students will face, if found in possession any of form of street or unwarranted prescription drugs. Scrolling through the many warnings, I finally come across the video, which apparently, is trending on my feed. My shaky fingers push play and just as quickly turn numb with shock as I watch my live coverage of the events of the party- my guts threatening to spill at the sight of meth balls sprawled around my drunken self.

The feeling only gets worse as the little red dot at the top left corner of the screen, continues to taunt me and the obsessive journalist side of mine, that blows open within minutes of consuming alcohol. It's also not the first time that I have done something dumb at one of these parties, but most of my shenanigans are limited to literally drooling over my crush's shirt, or trying to do a double pirouette on top of the kitchen counter.

Unravelling the drug mafia brooding in the streets of Sydney is new- horrifically new.

Plus, the giant trail of messages applauding my act of bravery doesn't seem to end... and when it does, I find my breath hitched and blood gushing past the numb of my fingers.

Dear Ms. Ty,

News 11 would like to arrange a phone call with you, in regards to the open position for a morning shift reporter for the channel's recent venture.
Your clever expose of the drug bust hindering within SSU, exhibits just the qualities we are looking in the journalists who are a representative of our agency. If amenable, e-mail a concise reply to this message by April 13, 2019, 12:00 pm, US Eastern Standard Time.

Warm Regards,
Helena Banks
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Holy shit.