I slithered out of bed, like the devilish snake that I am, and crawled to the bathroom putting one hand in front of the other. It was then that I noticed the black X’s written across the backs of my hands, and the sting of a hangover that was likely to stay for a very long time.
Black X’s are the universal sign for, “You fucked up so bad last night that you got kicked out of a place of business that specializes in stripper poles, cages, and women assaulting people with their tits.” I sat down on the toilet and did my best to remember how I acquired the infamous black X’s. I knew I had gone to Ralph’s — a filthy, cesspool of a nightclub — the previous night. All I could recall was leaving my friend’s place to head to the club after downing a fifth of Smirnoff Blue Label. Seemed like an average Friday night.
I went to the sink and started scrubbing at the ink on my skin. I kept my eyes glued to the drain. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror would certainly induce an intense feeling of shame followed by free-falling into a complete existential crisis on the floor of the dorm bathroom. If there weren’t people around me, I might’ve let it happen.
I stumbled back to my dorm room and grabbed my phone off the nightstand with 10 unread messages. Turns out I had sent more “hey sexy” and “show me your tits” texts than a hyper-sexual 13-year-old on Chatroulette. I quickly began sending the, “I’m sorry. I was so gone last night,” message to every person I wanted to remain in contact with. Women usually forgive and forget, right?
Rushing to pull myself together, I hopped in the shower. The mixture of blood, vomit, and water at my feet created a setting like the shower scene in The Hurt Locker. Except rather than thinking about being shot at, I was thinking about why drunk me thought it was a good idea to text, “let’s fuck” to every girl I graduated high school with. Not even one reply, either. After my shower I set out to meet some brothers for lunch, filled with enough shame to make Charlie Sheen blush.
I approached the table where the guys were sitting. My rabid curiosity about the previous night must’ve been easy to pick up on. Or it was really obvious that my body was red lining in an attempt to process the high quantities of toxins I had consumed 12 hours earlier. I quickly became the center of attention.
“What was up with that text you sent me last night?” I squinted my eyes enough to bring the chapter’s philanthropy chair into focus.
“Dude, I think I got kicked out of Ralph’s,” was all I could come up with.
“Well you did text me asking if I could-”
“I know what I said,” I interrupted. Fucking philanthropy chairs have the biggest mouths.
“Oh shit, Swoop,” The president of my fraternity joined the discussion. Fuck. “I know the DJ that was at Ralph’s last night. Said they had to kick a kid out for pissing in the corner. Apparently he was tall, lengthy, had (luscious) brown hair, and glasses. Does that sound familiar?”
The mystery was solved. I drank so much before Ralph’s that my soul said, “fuck it,” and exited my body. I wish a demonic presence had entered my being, like a normal person. At least then I could blame it for my deplorable behavior. When my soul left, nothing came to fill the void. My body degraded to a satchel of biological functions.
To make a long story short, the weeks following the incident at Ralph’s were rough. Waking up to the news that you whipped your Johnson out, and R. Kellyed all over the wall in a nightclub is a very humbling experience. The more I dwelled on it, the more I realized that worse things have probably happened. I just hope they let me zip up before they dragged me out the front door — dick in hand.