The Lure of Forbidden Fruit

I'm watching the season finale of "Doctor Who" by myself right now. It's not as depressing as it sounds since I watched it by myself the first time around. But since the SciFi channel has the longest commercial breaks known to man I'm going to tell you a story, because I know better than some who lurks on the internet and some things are best left to fiction.
Once upon a time
She sits at her desk trying to ignore the conversation behind her. None of them are older than 19 and some haven't even reached that mark yet. Yet there they are talking about vodka like it was orange juice. The only difference is that for this little huddle, such orange juice is quite illegal. She doesn't care if they drink. She doesn't care if they get themselves completely shit faced. She won't be the one with the hangover the next morning. She even has a medical excuse for not drinking. But for some reason it bothers her. This groups talk. Bothers her more than her favourite band cancelling tour dates, more than scalpers. She tells herself as she flicks around the internet, that it doesn't matter. It's not her problem.
They're out tonight. Her friend, one of the few she has, knows not to include her, so she's alone for the night. It doesn't bother, not really. She'll get to watch her movies, go to bed with out worries of being an annoyance to her room mates. Really it's rather nice to be alone. Except she knows what they're doing. The friend had the thoughtfulness to tell her what they'd be doing. Chinese and vodka. And there again, that gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach, despite the logic in her head, telling her that something bad, something wrong is going to happen and she has no control over it. The idea of self-medicating and being woken up in the middle of the night to sound of the inebriated overwhelm her, ruining this otherwise relaxing evening.
All of this will happen again. She suspects it will happen tomorrow night in fact. Another night alone, left to her own devises. She'll have to go to Central Park if that's the case. Her conscious gnaws at her, not to tattle but to berate. She wants to convince someone that she's right and not just a prude. She'll blame the expenditures on simple necessities. Something like that. She hates this, more than anything else about college. Not necessarily the being alone. The knowing why she's alone. Ignorance is bliss.