It was the spring of my freshman year. I was getting ready for what I thought was going to be a usual mixer with our favorite frat on campus, but oh my God, how wrong I was.
Because we were going to an outside venue for the mixer, we had to be bussed to said location. If I could pinpoint the moment when everything went downhill, it would have to have been on the bus ride there, when the guy I was sitting with handed me a water bottle filled halfway with Fireball and told me to chug it. Because I have no self-control and I forever live in fear of being considered a pussy, I finished it. Coupled with everything I had already drunk and the fact that I was on strep throat meds and, I knew I was in a wild ride for that night. The last thing I remember is getting to the venue.
I woke up the next morning confused and unaware of where I was (not that unusual), but still completely clothed in my dress, shoes, and jewelry from the night before (a little more unusual). When I finally got my bearings, I realized I was in my president’s apartment. As a wave of nausea overcame me, I got the fuck up and rushed to the bathroom. This was my first clue that something was wrong. I assumed the classic hungover vomit position, right hand holding my hair back and left hand propping myself up over the toilet. As soon as my left arm touched the ground, I had an intense, shooting pain up my arm. Fuck. I definitely broke something. I picked up my arm and gingerly held it while I tried to vomit out all the toxins I put into my system the night before.
As I got up and washed my hands, I saw my face for the first time. Holy fucking shit. I looked like I had gotten the shit beaten out of me. I had a black eye on my left eye, a long cut on the top of my forehead, and a chunk of skin missing from chin. I was a fucking mess. As I’d done every other time I didn’t want to deal with something, I went back to sleep and waited until my president came to wake me up. Her equally shocked and horrified expression let me know that my face was just as fucked up as I feared. It was only at this point that I figured out what actual fuck had happened to me the night before.
After chugging bottom-shelf liquor from a flask in the bathroom and telling the hot bartender that I was 100% down to fuck him, I had decided that I hadn’t quite embarrassed myself enough. The only rational next step was to have the bartender help me up on top of the bar and proceed to grace everyone in attendance with terrible, awkward white girl dance moves. I’m slightly more coordinated than an absolute klutz on a good day when I’m sober. Add copious amounts of alcohol and six-inch stripper heels, and disaster is bound to happen.
With all eyes on me, the worst happened. It’s unclear whether my heel had caught on something or if I’d just lost control, but whatever the reason, I went down. Not only did I fall from the bar, but on my way down, I smacked my head off one of the bar stools. Welp, that explained the fucked up face. My best friend and her boyfriend rushed over to help me up, at which point I proceeded to vomit all over my brand new shoes. A winning night all around.
Hearing this story the next morning was just as terrifying as one would expect. My friend and I decided that I needed to get to the ER ASAP rocky, where they then told me that I had a concussion. I needed stitches on my chin and surgery to fix the break in my arm. As one would expect, I had a standards meeting during which I was slapped with a hefty fine and a couple hours of community service.
TL;DR: Dancing on elevated surfaces landed me in the ER with no ounce of dignity left, parents severely disappointed in me, out $100, and stuck with a couple hours of community service.
Some would say it wasn’t worth it, but fuck it; I ended up with an awesome story. #TSTC.