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.
