[Every week, CC and John will bring you some of the weirdest, funniest, saddest things he hears on his college campus. Join the Overheard revolution! Leave your own overheard convos in the comments.]

“So this sandwich – portabello and provolone, I mean, it should have been good — but I mean, it was, like, a slab of provolone. Like, exactly a blob. Like I was trying to eat a brick. And so then I ate it, and I went back to my room, and I threw it up, and it was like ‘Yup, now I get to have dinner again’.”

“My mom, you know, she’s pretty, but she’s not that pretty.”

“Yesterday, I did that thing where – you know? You’re, like, Wal-mart, and you’re Halloween shopping, but you end up in that weird kinda retail fog. And so you go, hey, furniture, maybe I want a … futon, and hey, mechanical stuff… I want some turpentine, and then you walk around some more and then you’re outside and it turns out all you bought was an industrial size thing of Cheez-Puffs.”

A child — six, maybe seven — is at the counter in a Salvation Army store. He has a small bag of plastic Wild West action figures in his hand, and some change in the other.

“That’s one dollar and five cents,” says the old lady at the counter.

“There, now, give the lady the dollar,” says the boy’s father, behind him.

Slowly, carefully, the boy takes out each coin. He needs to make sure that he counts them perfectly — he needs this to be absolutely correct. He pushes them across the counter, looking up solemnly.

“Is this right?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s right.”

He smiles.

“So I went back to my room, and of course I figured nobody was there, so I opened the door and was just ‘All right! Masturbation seems like a good idea!’ And then my roommate’s girlfriend was on the couch, just kinda looking at me.”

“I wanted everyone in high school to call me ‘blow me down’. Then it sorta came back in my face. Like, the blowing.”

“Maya Angelou’s coming here?”

“Yeah, I’m imagining it sorta like this: Maya Angelou sets up a half pipe on the stage, and just takes an Impala and does tricks for an hour. Then she flies off a jump into the audience and the crowd goes crazy.”

“It’s a shame that ‘penis’ defines what it does, you know, because it’s such a good word.”

If there’s one thing in this world I know, it’s this: You gotta know your limit.

I don’t mean like how smart you are or how hard to push yourself when you’re working out or anything trivial like that. I’m talking about knowing how much you can drink.

One day a few months ago, a friend invited me out for a night of dancing and fun. I thought, hey, yes, I like dancing and fun. This will be excellent.

Cut to me four hours later in a blackout state, still dancing but question mark else? I don’t know because I was f*&cking wasted.

All I know is, I threw up in the bathroom of that club. And then I threw up in a diner afterwards. Twice. And then I think I took a cab home and went to sleep, but I know for sure that four hours later, I woke up and puked on and off for five hours, into my toilet, into plastic grocery bags, and all over myself. In fact, I vommed so much I burst a blood vessel, giving myself what I have affectionately termed zombeye. Zombeye, a bright red bloody eye, lasted two entire weeks.

But, of course, better zombeye than chlamydia. Another time I blacked out, I ended up going home with some random guy I met that night and suddenly coming to in his apartment with him on top of me. Fortunately, he stopped when I said stop, but I couldn’t believe what an asshole I was to put myself in that kind of situation. I drank until I lost control and I could have really paid for it.

Anyway, the point is, you have to know how much liquor you can handle. Otherwise you end up being a jerk, or being a skank, or ending up with zombeye.

I can drink two shots of tequila but three is sure death. My friend Katie can drink eight beers but can’t do shots. It doesn’t really matter what your limit is as long as you know it.

Right?