Sunday Morning
I wake up.
My eyeballs feel as if they are about to explode. I gulp, and it feels as if I was swallowing toothpicks. I rise and grasp at anything that resemble my glasses. A gavel, two different Sharpies, a dozen or so straws. Eventually, I come upon my prescription aviators, and decide to wear them instead. The Sun may or may not be out at this point, but that's something I don't really want to check.
Then it hits me.
A throbbing headache that slightly resembles what I would imagine a jackhammer feels like if it was pulverizing your cranium. I instantly grab for a cocktail of Advil and Excedrin, hoping one will fight this devil and the other will slay it. Slipping on my sandals, I stumble across the room and grab a jacket -- a grey blazer, and walk out the door. The hallway is littered with what I think are plastic BBs. This scares me, so I walk calmly into the bathroom across the hall, which stinks in ways too horrific to describe. My teeth feel like the have a thick film of sugary-mixed drink and leftover beer, so I brush my teeth and gargle with Listerine before someone comes in. It was Dave, running like a bat out of hell and expelling a large amount of what was once alcohol and chicken wings from his body. Dave is my friend, so I greet him a good morning and kept going.
Down the hall the carnage is worse.
My movement is unsteady, which I blame on equal parts dehydration and the BB pellets that have gotten themselves caught inside my sandals. I turn the corner and I see empty bottles of five dollar champagne strewn across the floor, with most of the champagne on the walls. I kick a bottle lightly, and it clanks against the others harmlessly. Down a flight of stairs and through the door to the right, I find Greg, sprawled out on the couch in our common room. ESPN is on, loud enough for anyone within at least 3 miles to hear. He is snoring loudly, which is even more notable because I noticed this without turning down the TV. I walk away from the crime scene and down the final hallway, where I bump into a girl wearing a t-shirt, and only a t-shirt, hoping to make a quick, anonymous exit from this den of sin. A few syllables fall out of her mouth before she scurries away like a scared squirrel.
"Nice to meet you, too."
I chortle to myself, and find my shoes outside Dan's room. He kindly left my ID card, which had somehow broken in half, and my actual glasses inside of my sneakers, which were caked in mud. I look outside again, and am forced to wonder how this happened, because the ground is fairly dry. I move on to the kitchen where there are the reminiscences of last night's slaughter. Empty Styrofoam containers of fast food cover the floor and counters. I open the fridge, and find the rest of my 12-pack of PBR. Two cans -- one full, one empty.
Success.
I crack it, and begin the next day.
My eyeballs feel as if they are about to explode. I gulp, and it feels as if I was swallowing toothpicks. I rise and grasp at anything that resemble my glasses. A gavel, two different Sharpies, a dozen or so straws. Eventually, I come upon my prescription aviators, and decide to wear them instead. The Sun may or may not be out at this point, but that's something I don't really want to check.
Then it hits me.
A throbbing headache that slightly resembles what I would imagine a jackhammer feels like if it was pulverizing your cranium. I instantly grab for a cocktail of Advil and Excedrin, hoping one will fight this devil and the other will slay it. Slipping on my sandals, I stumble across the room and grab a jacket -- a grey blazer, and walk out the door. The hallway is littered with what I think are plastic BBs. This scares me, so I walk calmly into the bathroom across the hall, which stinks in ways too horrific to describe. My teeth feel like the have a thick film of sugary-mixed drink and leftover beer, so I brush my teeth and gargle with Listerine before someone comes in. It was Dave, running like a bat out of hell and expelling a large amount of what was once alcohol and chicken wings from his body. Dave is my friend, so I greet him a good morning and kept going.
Down the hall the carnage is worse.
My movement is unsteady, which I blame on equal parts dehydration and the BB pellets that have gotten themselves caught inside my sandals. I turn the corner and I see empty bottles of five dollar champagne strewn across the floor, with most of the champagne on the walls. I kick a bottle lightly, and it clanks against the others harmlessly. Down a flight of stairs and through the door to the right, I find Greg, sprawled out on the couch in our common room. ESPN is on, loud enough for anyone within at least 3 miles to hear. He is snoring loudly, which is even more notable because I noticed this without turning down the TV. I walk away from the crime scene and down the final hallway, where I bump into a girl wearing a t-shirt, and only a t-shirt, hoping to make a quick, anonymous exit from this den of sin. A few syllables fall out of her mouth before she scurries away like a scared squirrel.
"Nice to meet you, too."
I chortle to myself, and find my shoes outside Dan's room. He kindly left my ID card, which had somehow broken in half, and my actual glasses inside of my sneakers, which were caked in mud. I look outside again, and am forced to wonder how this happened, because the ground is fairly dry. I move on to the kitchen where there are the reminiscences of last night's slaughter. Empty Styrofoam containers of fast food cover the floor and counters. I open the fridge, and find the rest of my 12-pack of PBR. Two cans -- one full, one empty.
Success.
I crack it, and begin the next day.