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I consider myself a pretty honest person. I’m no Mother Theresa, but I don’t lie, especially to authority figures and people I need things from. Back in my sophomore year, I didn’t exactly live up to this creed and it came back to kick my butt. Hard.

Let’s go back to fall of my sophomore year, when my biggest problems were which Halloween party to go to and how to convince my boyfriend to dress up as a Disney prince.  After promising baked goods and undergoing a frantic search for final accessories, we were ready to make our rounds to the nearby apartment parties, ready to wow the crowd with our awesome outfits and get lots of Facebook-worthy pictures. I was on my game, almost.

Any of you who have survived a Halloween on a college campus know it is a mess of jungle juice, cheap shots and sloppy, unknown kids crashing your party. It’s a jumble of limbs and scantily clad co-eds who end up lost in the morning. As an experienced Halloween-er I thought that I would be good to go. Unfortunately my Prince Charming was not.

Fast-forward a few hours after we’d left the party and stumbled back to my dorm where we crashed from exhaustion, without enough energy to change out of our ensembles let alone have a little role playing sexy time. Suddenly, I was awoken to the sound of water and sat up to see him “relieving himself” in the corner of my bedroom.

“GO TO THE BATHROOM, CHRIS!” I screamed as I realized what was going on.

“I’m in the bathroom…I’m going…I’m going…” he mumbles, and I quickly drift back asleep.

The next morning, I woke from my slumber, and couldn’t look less like a princess.  After rolling around and moaning for awhile, I finally got out of bed and ran to my laptop, hoping someone has already updated pictures from last night. Only my laptop wouldn’t turn on. And it was sticky. And….OMG is that a puddle on my desk?

And then it all came together.

Chris.
Peeing.
Middle of the night.

ON MY LAPTOP!?

Needless to say, I freaked! Then Chris freaked. Then I freaked some more. I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do without a laptop? AND WHO PEES ON A LAPTOP?

So I did what any college student would do – I cleaned up what I could (wearing gloves, obviously) and made an appointment at the repair center. Nervous and trying to come up with a not-so-embarrassing excuse for my problems, I walked right into the store and held up my computer, hoping the genius could bring it back to life. With a suspicious glance of one who knows, he gingerly opened my laptop and wrinkled his nose. “What happened?” He asked slowly.

“I…spilled lemonade on it!”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew how dumb they sounded. Lemonade? Why? Because it’s yellow? And sticky? Come on, they keyboard didn’t smell like fresh lemons….

The guy lifted the computer, inspecting it, then gave me a knowing look.

“Lemonade…OK. Well, unfortunately the computer is ruined. There’s nothing we can do about this…..lemonade damage.” He nudged it back across the desk, avoiding any direct contact. As I left the shop, dead laptop in a bag, I heard the entire staff bust out in laughter.

I learned my lesson about lying that day, and my boyfriend learned one too when I brought him the bill for a replacement. Halloween, you guys… no one makes it out unscathed.

[You think that's bad? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (some of which are way more mortifying than others) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

I’ve come to learn two fundamental truths this week: the happy hour does not exist, and breaking and entering is easier than it looks. I’m serious.

If I had known that a quick drink with a friend after work was going to lead to free steaks with married men, a rooftop bar with what may or may not have been a British boy band on holiday, and a late night snack session alone in my friend’s boss’s apartment, I would have worn a better outfit to work that day.  Because that’s my biggest regret of the night… obvi.

But as I was saying before, there is no singular hour that is happy, at least not in my world. Personally, I want each hour to be happier than the next. And I accomplished that, to the max, with my friend Monica this past (epic) Wednesday night. One beer turned into three different bars, multiple drafts, and a gaggle of new male friends with money to spend. So, despite the wedding bands and balding heads, when they offered to take us out to dinner, who were we to say no?

The Bald Brigade took us to a restaurant in the Meatpacking District of New York that can only be described as a steak-turned-whore house. It was like a bachelor pad designed by a metrosexual with a taste for busty women and black satin. But seven courses (and seven gin and tonics) later, we were having a grand old time discussing how many times a week we can eat Chipotle without falling into coma. The verdict: 7 times… but only if you got the burrito bowl with no cheese or condiments, which basically sucks all the fatty joy out of it anyway.

Once that pressing issue was settled, it was off to the rooftop bar at the swanky Ganesvoort Hotel where we replaced our gentlemanly dinner guests with a group of British men who all sported the Justin Bieber hair do and were more than happy to make sure our glasses were never empty. It was around the time I was entering “Leo Your Fiancé” into my phonebook when I realized that …. wait a tick, I live in New Jersey, and it’s now three a.m. and there are no trains going home. And it’s a weeknight. One minute I’m sitting in the VIP section of a luxury hotel with the world on a string, the next I’m homeless and without a change of clothes for work in the morning. How cruel life can be sometimes.

While Monica found it prudent to seek shelter in the arms of a Backstreet Boy, I still had no place to go. That’s when Monica remembered her boss was out of town for the week. PERFECT. She sent me off to a Manhattan address, with only the knowledge that I could find a key to the apartment underneath the mailbox. Next thing I know, I’m entering into a stranger’s apartment and making myself right at home.

I proceeded to: take a shower, making sure to remember to shave my legs; get myself dressed for bed, finding a sassy little nightie in this woman’s top drawer; and eat a late-night snack of cashews and Rocky Road ice-cream. My last fleeting thought before I finally passed out was, I better make sure to position myself correctly in this lady’s memory-foam mattress, otherwise the jig is up! Because surely the empty jar of cashews and dirty ice-cream spoon in the sink wouldn’t be enough of a clue.

I woke up in the morning not 100% sure where I was… or why I had thought it OK to wear another woman’s clothes to bed. Or to even sleep in her bed in the first place. But I made sure to return the nightgown to its rightful place, make the bed, and return the key to it’s hiding spot underneath the mailbox.

As I walked around H&M searching for an acceptable outfit to wear to work that morning (I chose a see-through t-shirt dress, sans panties, and sneakers—I must have still been drunk), I pieced together my night. After giggling to myself in the dressing room (both at my reflection at at the previous night’s shenanigans), I realized that I’d actually learned a third lesson:

If you ever happen to become a boss of any kind, don’t – under ANY circumstances – let the location of your hide-away key slip to your employees. Just don’t.

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (some are more traumatic than others) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

I met Josh* one night in October and thought he was cute. He was tall, had dark hair and eyes, a nice body and dressed REALLY well. (You know boy’s attire can be important, so don’t even deny it.) We met when I was pre-gaming in the dorm, so it wasn’t like I ever knew him when I wasn’t under the influence, and this tends to lead to bad decisions on my part. Very bad decisions.

Post-pre game with the girls (and him) we went out – a frat party, a house party, who really remembers? All I remember is what happened when I got back to the dorm, which I definitely wish I could forget. We ended up having a really drunken emotional talk (while watching Wedding Crashers) and I found out he was a virgin. Was. Until that night. Because all of a sudden, out of nowhere, we were hooking up. And then I swiped his V-Card.

This alone would have been bad enough, but afterwards we were sitting in his bed and he was all “Oh my god, I need to make some calls.” Thinking he was going to grab his phone and tell his roommate he could come back from his sexiling, I moved over to let him get out of bed. Only that wasn’t the call he was making.

He jumped out of his twin extra-long bunk, grabbed his phone and proceeded to call his best friend from home. I know this because this is how the conversation went:

“Dude! Dude! It’s Josh, man. I had to call you cause you’re my best friend… Guess what I just lost?!?”

Thankfully, the call ended after about 30 seconds. Unfortunately, that was longer than we spent having sex.

But then I saw him dialing again. Was there something he’d FORGOTTEN to tell him?! Nope – he just had another friend to call. This call was even worse than the last. He opened with the same “guess what I just lost” line, but apparently Bro-Love number two was too stupid to figure out what he meant.

“No, no!” he said. “It starts with a V and rhymes with birginity!”

I wish I was kidding. I was now semi-sober, listening to some d-bag call his friends from high school to tell him that he’d finally put the P in a V. I climbed out of bed and told him I had to pee, but really ran back up to my own room in shame.

If the calls to his friends weren’t bad enough, the next day he texted me: “What R we?”
I’ll give you guys hint: it starts with an N and rhymes with Othing.

You got a good story? Send it to editor@collegecandy and we’ll share it (anonymously, of course!) right here on CollegeCandy. And don’t be embarrassed. It can’t be worse than this.

While perusing (and by “perusing” I mean obsessively checking and re-checking) Facebook for the fourth time yesterday, I noticed that no one had done anything since the last time I logged in (an hour before). In a fit of never ending boredom that made signing off impossible, I decided to look at pictures of me.

Of the 300ish photos of me, 250 involved drinking and 249 of those involved me making some sort of awful face. Not like “I wasn’t ready for the camera” awful; more like, “I am going to make the ugliest face I can think of” awful. The sad part is that I can distinctly remember taking most of those pictures and consciously making the faces that are now staring back at (and horrifying) me.

I even giggled as I made one of my uglier faces and poked my head into what would have been a cute picture of friends. Why did I ever think that was a good idea?

Self Reflective Beer Goggles, that’s why.

It’s like the minute the beer hits my lips, I am somehow unable to take a picture without doing something completely stupid. Whether it is an awful face, mimicking oral sex with a beer bottle or thinking of a ridiculous scenario (“Your boyfriend just asked you to pee on him”) before snapping a selfie, I always look horribly, terrifyingly, bad.

You know you’ve been there. Go ahead; log onto Facebook right now and take a look at drunken pictures of you and your friends. I guarantee Self-Reflective Beer Goggles make an appearance. Many appearances, in fact.

I have been a victim of beer goggles many times in my life — I even once sported them for an entire 10-day cruise — but I never realized that they affect more than the way I see men. They affect the way people (like everyone on Facebook – hi mom!) see me!

At least, unlike kicking an ugly/short/hairy stranger out of your bed in the morning, this is easy to remedy; a simple un-tagging will do it.

Do you have SR Beer Google issues? What do you think about the druken Facebook picture epidemic?

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though some are way more disturbing than others) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

While you’re busy busting out A+’s and making new friends in college, it’s always really nice to go home for a weekend. And that is especially true during your freshman year when home friends routinely have elaborate parties where people drunkenly reunite.  It’s great really; chugging a few fuzzy navels with your best high school buddies, reminiscing about all of the TOTES COOL theme parties you’ve encountered on frat row so far, and all of the (Oh Em Gee) hot dudes you’ve met.

My particular high-school-post-first-month-of-college party came in late September my freshman year.  My entire high school class was there (literally all 170 of us), and we finally had enough over 21 contacts to scrounge up all of the alcohol we could ask for. We even had tents set up for drunken hook-ups sleeping.  Now, in order to follow the story, I have to set a prominent scene for you. The location of the party was any college kid’s dream: it was a giant hill in someone’s backyard that opened up to a serene lake with a small mud wrestling pit, a sauna, a hot tub and a huge dock.

It was heaven and everyone was so excited to be there with all of our friends that the drinking became excessive.

Soon here were mud-wrestling matches with girls in sports bras clawing at other girls, hoping to get all of the old, retired high school football captains to watch the girls “be drunk and sexy.” Afterward, people would dive into the lake and cool off make out and then sit in the sauna for a brief sobering up sesh.

I was having the time of my life. I ran around with my old girlfriends and even was paid five dollars to kiss one of them! Then I lost the five dollars when I  sloppily mud wrestled and played a game of ‘human bowling’ in the mud pit. I think I made out with 5 people that night. It’s one of those things where you feel comfortable with your old high school friends and all of these weird drunk hormones take over. It’s mildly embarrassing but extremely entertaining.

Eventually, after falling off the dock and producing the largest bruise known to man, me and one of my girlfriends decided it would be a good idea to run home. We’d had enough and we wanted to sleep in beds, not on the ground next to two horn dogs going at it.

Her house was only across the cornfield, it shouldn’t be that bad. At least that’s what we thought.  So in flip-flops and shorts, we went on our way. Now, don’t let the soft dirt in passing cornfields fool you. That shiz is deep. Like probably two feet. And lucky for us, it had rained the night before. By the time we arrived home at 5am, I had lost my flip flops and had mud up to my thighs. We passed out with crusted dirt on our legs on a deserted futon in her basement. Spooning.

But that wasn’t even the best story to come from that party. That award goes to another fine young lady in attendance, which we heard about from the host’s parents.

The next morning they were sitting in their kitchen sipping coffee and talking about how nice it was that the old crew was back together and everyone had grown up so much. Then, enjoying the beautiful morning, they looked out the window to find a young lady crawling drunkenly up their massive hill in their backyard from the cluster of tents at the bottom. Mid-sip of Starbucks via, the parents watched her pull down her pants and pop a squat right in front of their eyes…in their very own back yard.  Like a car crash, they were unable to look away.

Then, almost like out of a movie, Mrs. Pop-a-Squat started teetering mid-pee. Like a tree, the girl tipped and rolled down the hill. Peeing. Pants at half mass. All over herself.

That story, among many others from the evening, got through town pretty quickly. Needless to say, we never had another party again. But it’s OK; that one will forever live on in infamy.

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though I can say with absolute certainty that not everyone's includes a private plane and handcuffs) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

Last weekend I went to my friend’s birthday at one of those exclusive NYC clubs where you can’t get in if you’re not on a list. My friends and I got decked out for a big night on the town, which meant I put on a really short dress, slipped on my big practically-unwalkable heels, and shaved my legs. At first everything at the club was really fun and really trendy and really vodka-y. I was dancing on the tables and shamelessly hitting on guys. But that’s what happens when you’re drinking for free.

You know what also happens when you’re drinking for free? People lose their inhibitions as well as their dignity. One couple went from grinding on the dancing floor to humping on a booth. And while they were humping another couple edged into our corner and started getting busy. It didn’t take long before both girls were straddling the guys with their dresses pulled up and their underwear pushed down. While I can’t say that I saw actual intercourse (hard to see things when you’re shielding your eyes), I did see fingers going places fingers do not belong when those fingers are in public. One of the tables began shaking so hard that a waiter came over.  However I wrongly assumed that the waiter would stop the couple. Instead he just removed the glasses off the table so that there would be not broken glass when they started going at it on the floor. It’s at this point I started asking myself what was going on and what was I doing there.

And then one girl took a break (most likely to get tested for STDs) and her new lover took this as a chance to pick me up in both of his arms and say excitedly, “your turn.” Suddenly this went to bizarre and funny to Lifetime Movie of the Month. When I made it clear I would not be hooking up with him, he flipped me upside down, which made my dress flip upside down too. Attractive AND classy!

At that point, when I was mooning the entire club and wondering how I ended up in some fetish swingers sexy club, he put me down. I took one look at my friends and we ran out of there. In the cab ride home there were a lot of “what the?” but no actual coherent sentences. It wasn’t until I was back in my apartment, comfortably sitting in sweats, with my chastity belt on and locked that I could actualy talk about what just happened. Needless to say I can check “watching live porn” off my bucket list.

[Everyone's got a morning after story and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we'll post it - anonymously, of course - right here!]

It was one of the first warm nights in a long time and everyone on campus was throwing impromptu house parties. I knew I’d be walking all over campus, so I ditched my plans for a dress and heels and opted for jeans and flip flops instead. I met up with some of the girls in my sorority and we headed out to one of the many parties of the night.

A few hours and about 8 games of beer pong later, we ended up at some friend of a friend of a friend’s house. Not one of the 4 girls I was with knew anyone who actually lived in the house, and after doing a few laps around the backyard realized that we didn’t really recognize anyone at the party either.

“Let’s just go inside, pee, and then we’ll move on to the next party.” Cindy suggested, and having already broken the seal long ago, we all agreed.

So we went inside. Most of the party-goers were outside watching girls in skirts do keg stands, but there was a small group of guys standing around the kitchen taking shots. We walked past them looking for the bathroom and that is when Cindy stopped and pointed towards the living room wall.

“Oh my god. LOOK WHAT THEY HAVE!” I followed her pointing finger (which was stained orange from all the festive Jello shots we’d taken at party numero dos). Up on the mantle in the living room was an “Elm St.” street sign. The same street Cindy and a few of the other girls currently lived on. “We need to steal that!”

The rest of the group drunkenly and excitedly agreed. We quickly filed into the bathroom to come up with a plan of action. The sign was perched pretty high up on the wall so whoever grabbed it had to be tall. Everyone looked at me and my 5’11 frame. I agreed to pull off the heist, but only if the other girls caused a diversion with the guys in the kitchen. And the plan was set.

We all peed (I mean, how often do you find a boy’s bathroom with both toilet paper and soap in college?!), held hands for some silent prayer, and moved out to perform Operation: Elm. St. The plan seemed totally foolproof…until we got back out into the living room and noticed it had filled up with people. We huddled together and discuss a new game plan. Feeling totally drunk invincible, I came up with a new idea. I sent one girl to the door, the others outside and then I just jumped up, tore the sign down and ran.

“RUN!” I screamed to my friends. We all started sprinting down the street, 3 dudes chasing pretty closely behind. Rebecca, up front, was a Cross Country runner in high school and led the pack. Me, my flip flops and the sign were in the back. I tossed my purse to one of the other girls to give me a bit more grip on the sign. I kept running.

“THEY’RE CATCHING UP! WE NEED TO LOSE THEM!” I screamed. And by “screamed” I mean “tried to scream through my heavy breathing.” Damn that whole “smoke when I’m drunk” thing.

Rebecca cut left and ran through some random backyards. We all followed. And then we were at a fence.  I looked back and it looked like the boys weren’t behind us.

“WTF, Becca? You want us to climb a f**king fence?” But she didn’t have time to answer, because we could hear the boys coming. The girls hoisted me and the sign up. I swung one leg over the top, then the other, then I jumped. I heard a loud ripping sound as I fell to the ground. It was my jeans. My favorite jeans. My jeans that were now missing the right butt pocket. But I didn’t care; I needed to get moving with this sign, and fast.

So I ran. And somewhere along the way, I lost a flip flop. I honestly don’t know where or how, but one minute I had it on my left foot and the next minute my freshly pedicured foot was hitting the pavement. But I kept running, one shoe and one pocket missing, until I got to Cindy’s house. I busted open the door and ran in. One by one the other girls followed. Laughing.

I was sweating. My left foot was dirty and bleeding. My favorite jeans were ruined. I had branches in my hair. And Cindy’s other roommates were looking at me like was a lunatic. But I got the sign. And the boys were nowhere to be found.

[Everyone's got a morning-after story and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we'll post it - anonymously, of course - right here!]

My night began like most others: taking shots to the beat of some Lady Gaga song (gimme a break – it was last fall), followed by endless rounds of pong (and probably some trash talking about how I once made a behind-the-back shot). To say the least, my texting abilities slowly declined with each game, and soon my night went from “hey what’s good?” to “meet pu laterrrrrrr???”

Eventually, I was kicked off the pong table and headed out to meet up with my “friend,” Mark. We headed back to his room where his roommate (and one of my best friends), Jack, was apparently entertaining a girl. Mark informed me that we’d have to hang out for a bit before heading upstairs, so we sat outside and I relived my awesome beer pong shots while Mark rubbed my thigh. Soon enough, Jack came outside for his post-coital cigarette and started telling me about how he already prefaced my arrival by telling his girl about how great I am and how I’m his best friend how much I matter to him.

Amidst me rolling my eyes, the three of us walked into the room, where this girl was sitting in his bed, bright-eyed and bushy tailed (or should I say bushy hair-ed). We were all expecting her to leave, obviously, but instead she sat there and grilled me like Diane Sawyer.  It was all a blur, but I do recall her asking me approximately twenty thousand questions, from what my major is and where I lived on campus to what my social security number was.

She proceeded to talk so much and try to befriend me that I eventually just fell asleep sitting up on Mark’s bed, where he was already passed out next to me. All I could think about, even in my semi-conscious state, was how much she was ruining everyone’s night. I didn’t come over to befriend my best friend’s one-night-stand, I came over for my own selfish good time!

I was still angry when I woke up the next morning, fully clothed, so it was nice when Mark offered to drive me home. No sooner did we get ready to leave and get away from Jack’s trainwreck that she popped out of bed and asked for a ride, too. Being a good kid, Mark naturally agreed to drive the pain in the ass home. I started fuming, but found solace in the fact that we might get a few minutes of alone-time once we dropped her.

Now why in the world would I think that?

As I stepped out of Mark’s (hot) coupe to let her out of the back seat, she began a 5-minute speech insisting that she drive me home and to not make Mark go out of his way to drive me himself. Despite his insistance that it wasn’t a nuisance and my insistance that it was fine, she bugged us both to the point that I finally caved. Mark drove away and I followed her up the grimy stairs of her “bestie’s” apartment building to get her keys and shoes. But what could and should have been a 30-second errand turned into a 45 minute bitching session about how horrible my friend Jack is (Reminder: I was introduced as his best friend in the world) and how he’s so rude and inconsiderate and a liar and horrible.

Uh…what?!?!

I started frantically texting Mark about the most awkward situation of all time and he offered to come pick me up but I told him no, due to this girl’s constant promise to “leave in five.” When we FINALLY left and she dropped me off, she kept promising to keep in touch (why, I’ll never know). Thankfully, I didn’t hear from her again. That is until I walked into my favorite coffee shop to do some studying two months later and found her sitting at my table. I tried to sneak out but Crazy Eyes saw me, jumped up, hugged me and started chatting me up like we were long lost sisters (as opposed to two girls who happened to cross paths during a booty call)….

I interrupted her, told her I was late for class and booked it out of there. Then I called Jack and hold him that all future booty calls would have to be screened by me. It’s for his own good!

[Everyone's got a morning-after story and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we'll post it - anonymously, of course - right here!]

So the dorm policy at our school is tighter than a drum, and at times, it seems as though the administration has figured out every possible way to keep us out of each other’s dorms at 3 am.  Luckily, for one dorm, a crafty little in-and-out maneuver has been devised called The Sneak.  One night, I was (un)fortunate enough to get a glimpse of just how The Sneak works.

I really shouldn’t have hooked up with this guy, but such is the story of my life.  We went back to his dorm and “hung out” for a little bit, and then drifted off together.  It seemed to be a pretty standard night as far as these nights go, but it took a very weird turn around 4 am.

The guy and I didn’t even hear the door open, but apparently it did, as we figured out in about five minutes. I awoke to hear a kind of grunting and girl moaning, which I cleverly deduced was not his roommate.  My guy awoke at this point, having also heard the noise, and peeked over the loft to see what was going on.

“Looks like [roommate] brought someone back,” he muttered.

Uh, obviously. 

We didn’t really move for a while,  awkwardly listening to the intense (and getting more intense) noises coming from below. I quietly rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. I was afraid to even breathe, thoroughly creeped out by our situation, which had completely unfazed my guy. In fact, the whole being woken up thing merely reminded him I was there, and he decided to try and initiate some kind of second sexy go around.  I don’t think he even realized how weird that was, but I did. After a little groping and a sloppy kiss, I rolled over, forced some cuddling, and he quickly konked out again.

Eventually, after all the moaning stopped and I felt like some sort of sick voyeur, the rest of us fell asleep too. I woke up with the sun a few ours later and decided it was time to do the reverse Sneak back to my place. It wasn’t easy. Not only did I have to climb down from the loft without waking my friend, but I had to tip toe around so as not to wake the other friends sleeping down below.

I held my breath, grabbed my things and ran.

The Sneak is apparently way more popular (and successful) than I had originally thought, but after that night, it’s going to be a while before I try it again.

One Friday night after a long week, a couple of friends who live in the next apartment complex threw a party. After getting all dolled up (and taking a few roomie shots), two of my roommates and I headed over with numerous handles of vodka, while the other two headed to a different shindig. Upon our arrival, my boyfriend met us there and all of us decided this was a night to get really, really drunk.

We started taking shots immediately as music blasted and the party got more and more crowded.  It was a small apartment with tons of people inside, making it hard to move around, so logically we just stayed put in the corner we were in… and continued to take shots…for a few hours. We eventually stumbled to another party where my boyfriend and I got separated from our friends and, feeling frisky, decided to just make our way back to my place for a little lovin’.

Things were goin’ well in the bedroom. And by well, I mean crazy. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve got a little too much booze running through your system. We were in the middle of a particularly acrobatic situation when my boyfriend, who I must have been relying on to hold me up, suddenly fell off the bed. Naturally, I went down with him, slamming my head on my dresser along the way. I hit the floor as a searing pain shot through my head and my ear felt like it was on fire. I couldn’t move. I layed there in the fetal position moaning as my boyfriend freaked out.

“Oh my god. Oh my god! Are you OK?” He reached over and felt the side of my. “YOU’RE BLEEDING!”

I freaked out. My boyfriend pulled me up and we ran to the bathroom where I saw it. Blood. Everywhere: dripping down my neck, into my cleavage, all over his hands, streaked across his face.  We both sprinted upstairs (in our undies) to find someone to help us. We ran into my first roommate’s room and found her passed out next to her bed in her party clothes and shoes. Clearly she wouldn’t be much help. We shut the door and ran down the hall where, thankfully, my other three were awake. They all screamed when they saw me.

“Oh my god! What happened?!”

There was no time to explain so I grabbed a tank top from the floor, threw it on and followed my roommate (who deemed herself “sober enough” to drive to the campus Emergency Room) outside.

After getting yelled at for saying “sh*t” by a 250-pound attendant with a  “Gangsta Bitch” tattoo on her arm, I met with the receptionist who asked for my insurance card. In my drunken stupor (or maybe it was all that blood loss?) I handed her (in this order) my ID, my school ID, a Visa card, my Starbucks card and, finally, the insurance information she had requested. Then I made my boyfriend go buy me chips from the vending machine as I held an ice pack to my head (What? You think the drunk munchies go away when you’re bleeding from the head?). Eventually, it was my turn.

I layed on the table and held my boyfriend’s hand as the doctor, in a very thick foreign accent, informed me that my ear was basically split in half and I’d need 6 stitches. I mentally freaked out (I’d never had stitches before!), but was too drunk to do anything but lay there (in a tank top and a pair of plaid boy shorts that barely covered my ass, by the way) with my eyes closed and a stupid smile on my face. I barely felt a thing.

Finally, the night ended and my boyfriend and I went home.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
Unfortunately, having a bunch of black wires sticking out of your ear leaves people with a lot of questions. Especially my grandma, who, in addition to the rest of my family, I had to see when I went home for Thanksgiving only two days later.