OleVillains

Living Wet on a Dry Campus

UPI's

It is with great difficulty that I write this post. Not because of any emotional or moral or intellectual hesitancy, though. Nor am I impaired by any fear or lack of motivation. No, I'm talking about physical difficulty in actually wielding a keyboard. My hand, dear readers, and the arm to which it is begrudgingly attached, is absolutely and positively mangled, fucked up, etc. etc. This weekend, I sustained considerable amounts of UPIs.

What's that? You don't know what a UPI is? Perhaps you've heard of DUI's and OUI's and IOU's, but you may not have heard of UPI's, which in my opinion, pose one of the largest threats to college students' safety; more so than any other acronym (except maybe BORSC)?!

Allow me to enlighten you. UPI's, or Unidentified Party Injuries, are often the butt of jokes made on Sunday afternoons as thoughtless students look back on their weekend of activity and mayhem. They are not, however, a laughing matter. If you need evidence of this fact, simply listen to my story.

When I get drunk, I'm pretty much dead to the world in all but two regions: my loud mouth and my, ahem, Jimminy Cricket. Anything that does not directly affect these two areas is typically ignored; people talking to me are often blocked out by the effects of the booze(duh, you don't hear through your mouth or your crotch, people!) and even people smacking me on the back to get my attention often find it difficult to succeed in such an endeavor. A hit to the junk, however, seems to do the trick, although I don't recommend it unless you like having a drunk grizzly bear mauling you with slobbery threats.

Anyway, back to being a walking zombie. This weekend, I hit that point of being drunk where those aforementioned entities were literally the only parts of my body that were at all interested in following orders, and it's debatable whether my mouth or my jimminy could have functioned properly if put to the test. However, this phenomenally cute friend of mine, we'll call her Hotass Amy (because that's what I call her and I like consistency) lives in Thorson and called me to come over and watch a movie with her friends and her. At this point it's about 11:30, and if you had asked me to say the alphabet backwards I probably would have started mumbling sanskrit and been totally defensive of its accuracy. So, she calls, and my loud mouth exclaims "HELLLL yess I'll come over!" and without so much as a goodbye to my current company, I lumber out of the room and down the hall.

This is the point at which I'm pretty sure I sustained UPI numero uno. (I say "pretty sure" because the nature of UPIs is that you don't really know how you got them, but you're left to analyze their severity and shape the next day and go back and retrace your drunkass path and figure out where you got hurt. ) I vaguely recall some smarmy tool working the front desk saying "Someone's been having a good night" sarcastically at me after I finally figured out how to operate the front door. Halfway through the door frame, I hear his snide remark and of course am inspired to return it twofold, so I turn around with some haste to look the chump in the eye. This would have worked great if there weren't enormous pillars of metal separating doors from each other. I remember the kid laughing, and me being angry, and leaving, and looking in the mirror at the gash over my eyebrow and nose, I'm just gonna go out on a limb here and suggest that I probably smacked my face into the doorway when I turned around to offer whatever witty retort I thought I had at the time.

To save this post from getting overly lengthy, I'll summarize my injuries in list form and offer you my best guesses as to how and where I got them:
1. Head gash: check.
2. Finger/wrist injuries which are mentioned in opening paragraph: probably when I lept for the dorito bag in Thorson, because my arm is raw from elbow to index finger in what should go down as the most historically noteworthy rugburn of all time, and I definitely didn't even feel a thing at the time. I should probably call over there and make sure I didn't leave any calling cards, like, say, 6 inches of a thin layer of skin peel.
3. 3 toenails busted. I drag my feet when I'm drunk, and I was wearing sandals. 'Nuf said.
4. Perfect circle cut out of boxers over left thigh, permanent marker smiley face drawn on thigh: Hard to say, but I'm going to guess this happened at the same point in the night when Amy drew a mustache on her face with a sharpy, which according to facebook, was while I was still in Thorson.

The list sadly goes on a little bit, but the rest are kind of minor and seem uninteresting. Who wants to hear about the bruise on my bicep that is in the shape of an exclamation point, after all? Surely not you guys, who have important things to get back to...like...drinking on Monday nights? Ayyo!

If you got anything out of this post, ladies and gents, let it be this: taking photos to capture memories of partying is completely unnecessary. If you get as injured as I do, you'll get to spend the first few days of your week piecing together what happened to you and letting the memories solidify as your scabs heal and your bruises fade.

Also, friends don't let friends party near sharpies.

Yours till next time,
The Flask