Days till Menopause: 14
HAPPY 2008!!!!!!!!!!
I hope everyone had a happy, healthy, and extraordinarily drunk New Years! Before I tell you all the tale of how Erin and I rang in the new year, I feel it's only responsible of me to somewhat finish The Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007. I really meant to do all 5, but between my mum visiting me over this past weekend, and the fact that for some reason the internet in my apartment has decided to no longer work, I was sadly cut off from the online world. Since it's already (oops) 2008, I suppose it's enough to skip right ahead and jump to:
The Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007:
Number 1: The Urinator
You may think that the Wall of Shame was all fun and games (hmm interesting rhyme) but far more work goes into it than you may be aware. The first step in the process is deciding on a name for the offender, and oftentimes it's difficult to think of something both explanatory and catchy. Take, for instance, The Mormon Mauler - fabulous name, no? - a guy that was a Mormon (apparently) and yet we believe he snorted coke in our bathroom as he then went totally out of his mind and tore all my clothes off in a partially-lust-filled frenzy. I've never been so shockingly disheveled and out of breath from a half-assed (and not even very interesting) hook up.
Anyway.
At first we were tossing ideas around, trying to think of some basic key phrases we could work with - something that could be funny and fitting:
- coke head
- tiger
- disheveller
- maniac
- drug fiend
See? None of those are particularly hilarious. Eventually we came up with Crouching Tiger, Hidden Lightweight, because we honestly hadn't seen his insane transformation coming (nor his taste for the powder) and because he pounced on me from behind, and it was all very Ninja-like. It seemed fitting that we honor the great ninja-esque movies, while explaining that the dude couldn't hold his booze/beer/cocaine/etc. But something was missing.
It wasn't until months later, when Becca had a stroke of genius, that The Mormon Mauler finally had a fitting and thrilling name.
The second step in this process is to come up with an appropriate and hi-larious! picture to actually go up onto the wall. We had problems with MM because we were originally going with Crouching Tiger... and the first picture had a ridiculous tiger bounding across the paper, with a coke nose and a spray of white powder. It was very classy - something you may see in the tabloids after Lindsay Lohan has a night out on the town, perhaps. But then it looked sort of like Tony the Tiger was snorting the sugar off his Frosted Flakes, and the whole thing ended up being just sort of sad. But that's another story altogether.
Now, every once in awhile, there's a guy that comes along that's just so outrageous, and so shockingly absurd that his name just seems to emerge from the very air itself. It just is. And such was the case of:
The Urinator
For a rose is a rose is a rose, and a Urinator by any other name would smell as... pungent.
Let me explain the situation:
In DC, there's something that affects 99.9% of women from the ages of 17-25. You may think it's the clap, but in fact it's far more horrifying (and far more embarrassing.) It's called: Marines. The Marines are a group of men that are so low on the IQ totem pole that, often times, I can carry on a better conversation with the trash barrel outside the McPherson Square Metro Station. I'm sure that, somewhere, perhaps higher in the rankings, there are men of intelligence, men of poise and grace and manners, men who are brave and strong and capable of leading other men in the most dangerous and treacherous of situations.
Maybe. My experience, however, has taught me otherwise.
While I am not part of the 99.9% of women who fall into the "Slavering Over Marines" category, my friends are the type to be rather enamored with them. When a friend started dating one (and I use the term "dating" very loosely), we suddenly ended up with a group of them that sank their proverbial teeth into our proverbial ankles, and seemed ready to stay for the long run. There was Sergeant Blue Balls, the guy that couldn't catch a break; The Beefalo, living proof that one can still be a member of society after a full frontal lobotomy (just not a productive nor intelligent member of society); Random Dude who no one seemed to know; and my friend S, who was doomed to become The Urinator.
I first met the boys a few nights before I finally (again) broke up with my on-again, off-again ball-and-chain of a boyfriend. The Urinator was apparently enamored of me from the beginning, as he wanted my number and wanted to hang out. Now, to be fair, he was a really nice guy. A little enthusiastic, sure, and not my type, but he was smarter than his pack of hyenas, and he was a genuinely nice guy; he didn't press too hard for my number, and he did back off when I told him I was (for the moment) still technically in a relationship.
Fast forward to the night I did finally end one of the most obnoxious relationships of my life, and who's conveniently at our place? The Marines. So The Urinator knows I'm single now, considering I was so giddy and relieved that I joined the Marines and my friends in our living room for celebrations and numerous toasts. It was sort of cute, the way he was hanging off my every word, and laughing a little too hard at my stupid jokes, but it was almost endearing in a way. I didn't want to sleep with him, but he was fun to hang out with, and god only knows we were testosterone-strapped for most of college. There's something about being in a sorority and being surrounded, at any time, with at least 30 other girls, that makes you crave masculine time.
So when The Urinator called me a few days later, and invited me to go with him to the Marines Corps Ball, I figured it wouldn't hurt to hang out with him a little more, and get more of a feeling as to whether or not I wanted to actually commit to going to this thing with him. While I'm often heartless, he was fun and kind and I figured I'd at least give him the chance to hang out again, so I could see if I'd be comfortable going out for a night of crazy drinking and questionable choices with him.
We had a party at our place so everyone could join in on the fun. We got ready and pregamed a little, while the Marines finished working a banquet of some sort. When they arrived, we commenced a long night of drinking, Never Have I Ever, and all-around frivolity. By the end of the night I was feeling pretty good - drunk, but not shitfaced. The Urinator, however, was completely out-of-his-mind drunk. We couldn't figure out how 8 beers had made him so sloppy, since we'd seen two of them pound a 30 rack in a shockingly short amount of time and be fine. What the hell had they been doing beforehand?
Hard alcohol. At the banquet. And lots of it. With the clock pushing 2am, The Urinator was so drunk he could no longer stand up properly; he was slurring and blathering on to himself, and couldn't quite keep both eyes open (or focused.) We sent him off to go to sleep, where he conveniently passed out cold. On my bed.
When the time came for the rest of us to retire, I realized that there was a very drunk, very passed out guy on my bed. And a very almost-entirely-naked guy on my bed, to boot. Somewhere between the living room and the short walk to the room I shared with Erin, he'd shed all of his clothes (besides his boxers), and was sprawled out beneath my quilt, legs sticking out everywhere. It was all very awkward.
I was too drunk to attempt yanking him out and shoving him onto the floor, so after some quick debate, I figured I'd roll him into the GIGANTIC empty space between my bed and the wall (thank you, GW architecture) and leave him be. Erin was about 4 feet away from me, and she has the strength of 10 marines, and besides, The Urinator was a nice guy. A terrible drunk, but he was harmless. I changed into my pajamas, rolled The Urinator aside, and settled down to go to sleep.
Around 3am I awoke to an elbow in the jugular, and my first thought was god fucking damnit, he's trying to silence me and have his wicked way with me, I need to wake up Erin, and good lord this is going to be awkward. Then I realized that he was still asleep, and the reason he was fidgeting like a mad man was because he was taking his boxers off. Okay, so then I was confused - was he attempting to molest me, or was he insane? Or was it some combination of the two?
And then, suddenly, I heard a noise that would forever change my life (and give me one of the best ice breakers a girl could ask for.) It was a curious sound, a bizarre sound, something that doesn't seem right - like hearing an animal in the dorm, or hearing a sorority girl speak up in class with a correct answer. It was wrong.
And it sounded like a gentle fountain.
I bolted up right and looked over at Erin with a look of dawning horror - she herself had mirrored by movements, practically jumping out of her bed, her eyes wide and terrified. In a slo-mo montage from a tacky horror movie, I turned my head and my jaw dropped open as I took in the sight before me. It was The Urinator.
Completely naked.
Pissing in my bed.
My reaction was sort of like this:
HAPPY 2008!!!!!!!!!!
I hope everyone had a happy, healthy, and extraordinarily drunk New Years! Before I tell you all the tale of how Erin and I rang in the new year, I feel it's only responsible of me to somewhat finish The Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007. I really meant to do all 5, but between my mum visiting me over this past weekend, and the fact that for some reason the internet in my apartment has decided to no longer work, I was sadly cut off from the online world. Since it's already (oops) 2008, I suppose it's enough to skip right ahead and jump to:
The Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007:
Number 1: The Urinator
You may think that the Wall of Shame was all fun and games (hmm interesting rhyme) but far more work goes into it than you may be aware. The first step in the process is deciding on a name for the offender, and oftentimes it's difficult to think of something both explanatory and catchy. Take, for instance, The Mormon Mauler - fabulous name, no? - a guy that was a Mormon (apparently) and yet we believe he snorted coke in our bathroom as he then went totally out of his mind and tore all my clothes off in a partially-lust-filled frenzy. I've never been so shockingly disheveled and out of breath from a half-assed (and not even very interesting) hook up.
Anyway.
At first we were tossing ideas around, trying to think of some basic key phrases we could work with - something that could be funny and fitting:
- coke head
- tiger
- disheveller
- maniac
- drug fiend
See? None of those are particularly hilarious. Eventually we came up with Crouching Tiger, Hidden Lightweight, because we honestly hadn't seen his insane transformation coming (nor his taste for the powder) and because he pounced on me from behind, and it was all very Ninja-like. It seemed fitting that we honor the great ninja-esque movies, while explaining that the dude couldn't hold his booze/beer/cocaine/etc. But something was missing.
It wasn't until months later, when Becca had a stroke of genius, that The Mormon Mauler finally had a fitting and thrilling name.
The second step in this process is to come up with an appropriate and hi-larious! picture to actually go up onto the wall. We had problems with MM because we were originally going with Crouching Tiger... and the first picture had a ridiculous tiger bounding across the paper, with a coke nose and a spray of white powder. It was very classy - something you may see in the tabloids after Lindsay Lohan has a night out on the town, perhaps. But then it looked sort of like Tony the Tiger was snorting the sugar off his Frosted Flakes, and the whole thing ended up being just sort of sad. But that's another story altogether.
Now, every once in awhile, there's a guy that comes along that's just so outrageous, and so shockingly absurd that his name just seems to emerge from the very air itself. It just is. And such was the case of:
The Urinator
For a rose is a rose is a rose, and a Urinator by any other name would smell as... pungent.
Let me explain the situation:
In DC, there's something that affects 99.9% of women from the ages of 17-25. You may think it's the clap, but in fact it's far more horrifying (and far more embarrassing.) It's called: Marines. The Marines are a group of men that are so low on the IQ totem pole that, often times, I can carry on a better conversation with the trash barrel outside the McPherson Square Metro Station. I'm sure that, somewhere, perhaps higher in the rankings, there are men of intelligence, men of poise and grace and manners, men who are brave and strong and capable of leading other men in the most dangerous and treacherous of situations.
Maybe. My experience, however, has taught me otherwise.
While I am not part of the 99.9% of women who fall into the "Slavering Over Marines" category, my friends are the type to be rather enamored with them. When a friend started dating one (and I use the term "dating" very loosely), we suddenly ended up with a group of them that sank their proverbial teeth into our proverbial ankles, and seemed ready to stay for the long run. There was Sergeant Blue Balls, the guy that couldn't catch a break; The Beefalo, living proof that one can still be a member of society after a full frontal lobotomy (just not a productive nor intelligent member of society); Random Dude who no one seemed to know; and my friend S, who was doomed to become The Urinator.
I first met the boys a few nights before I finally (again) broke up with my on-again, off-again ball-and-chain of a boyfriend. The Urinator was apparently enamored of me from the beginning, as he wanted my number and wanted to hang out. Now, to be fair, he was a really nice guy. A little enthusiastic, sure, and not my type, but he was smarter than his pack of hyenas, and he was a genuinely nice guy; he didn't press too hard for my number, and he did back off when I told him I was (for the moment) still technically in a relationship.
Fast forward to the night I did finally end one of the most obnoxious relationships of my life, and who's conveniently at our place? The Marines. So The Urinator knows I'm single now, considering I was so giddy and relieved that I joined the Marines and my friends in our living room for celebrations and numerous toasts. It was sort of cute, the way he was hanging off my every word, and laughing a little too hard at my stupid jokes, but it was almost endearing in a way. I didn't want to sleep with him, but he was fun to hang out with, and god only knows we were testosterone-strapped for most of college. There's something about being in a sorority and being surrounded, at any time, with at least 30 other girls, that makes you crave masculine time.
So when The Urinator called me a few days later, and invited me to go with him to the Marines Corps Ball, I figured it wouldn't hurt to hang out with him a little more, and get more of a feeling as to whether or not I wanted to actually commit to going to this thing with him. While I'm often heartless, he was fun and kind and I figured I'd at least give him the chance to hang out again, so I could see if I'd be comfortable going out for a night of crazy drinking and questionable choices with him.
We had a party at our place so everyone could join in on the fun. We got ready and pregamed a little, while the Marines finished working a banquet of some sort. When they arrived, we commenced a long night of drinking, Never Have I Ever, and all-around frivolity. By the end of the night I was feeling pretty good - drunk, but not shitfaced. The Urinator, however, was completely out-of-his-mind drunk. We couldn't figure out how 8 beers had made him so sloppy, since we'd seen two of them pound a 30 rack in a shockingly short amount of time and be fine. What the hell had they been doing beforehand?
Hard alcohol. At the banquet. And lots of it. With the clock pushing 2am, The Urinator was so drunk he could no longer stand up properly; he was slurring and blathering on to himself, and couldn't quite keep both eyes open (or focused.) We sent him off to go to sleep, where he conveniently passed out cold. On my bed.
When the time came for the rest of us to retire, I realized that there was a very drunk, very passed out guy on my bed. And a very almost-entirely-naked guy on my bed, to boot. Somewhere between the living room and the short walk to the room I shared with Erin, he'd shed all of his clothes (besides his boxers), and was sprawled out beneath my quilt, legs sticking out everywhere. It was all very awkward.
I was too drunk to attempt yanking him out and shoving him onto the floor, so after some quick debate, I figured I'd roll him into the GIGANTIC empty space between my bed and the wall (thank you, GW architecture) and leave him be. Erin was about 4 feet away from me, and she has the strength of 10 marines, and besides, The Urinator was a nice guy. A terrible drunk, but he was harmless. I changed into my pajamas, rolled The Urinator aside, and settled down to go to sleep.
Around 3am I awoke to an elbow in the jugular, and my first thought was god fucking damnit, he's trying to silence me and have his wicked way with me, I need to wake up Erin, and good lord this is going to be awkward. Then I realized that he was still asleep, and the reason he was fidgeting like a mad man was because he was taking his boxers off. Okay, so then I was confused - was he attempting to molest me, or was he insane? Or was it some combination of the two?
And then, suddenly, I heard a noise that would forever change my life (and give me one of the best ice breakers a girl could ask for.) It was a curious sound, a bizarre sound, something that doesn't seem right - like hearing an animal in the dorm, or hearing a sorority girl speak up in class with a correct answer. It was wrong.
And it sounded like a gentle fountain.
I bolted up right and looked over at Erin with a look of dawning horror - she herself had mirrored by movements, practically jumping out of her bed, her eyes wide and terrified. In a slo-mo montage from a tacky horror movie, I turned my head and my jaw dropped open as I took in the sight before me. It was The Urinator.
Completely naked.
Pissing in my bed.
My reaction was sort of like this:
My stuffed animals, including my beloved stuffed Moshi duck (named Octavian Belu after the former Romanian Womens' Olympic Gymnastics Coach) once in a neat row along the edge of my bed, were now like a firing line, awaiting the blast of something far worse than a bullet. My ridiculously pretty, ridiculously expensive quilt, was right in front of them. It was a fate worse than death.
Now, if anyone had ever asked me: "What would you do if a Marine peed in your bed?" I would've answered: "Hauled him out of bed, beat his sorry ass, and kicked him the hell out." In all actuality, I decided to:
Scream like a wussy little girl, jump out of bed, and run screaming through my hallway, out the door, and down to the lobby, where I proceeded to continue screaming, and eventually frightened the hell out of a UPD officer. Erin came with me while I suffered what can only be described as Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. All I could say, over-and-over again, was "he peed in my bed... he peed in my bed... he peed... in my bed!" It was very tragic.
After about an hour of this, I finally collected myself enough to go back upstairs. When we arrived at the door, Erin and I realized that the cot that had been sitting outside in the hall earlier had not been claimed - we'd assumed our neighbors had requested it, but since it was now about approaching 4am, we figured no harm, no foul. First, we wheeled the cot into the room and into the living room - then it was time for The Urinator.
I approached cautiously, holding my breath, feeling my body tremble. He was asleep in a pool of his own urine, spread out like a drunk doing some macabre snow angle. By some miracle, he'd only managed to pee in my comforter, and, somehow, didn't get a single drop of urine on my quilt or on my beloved stuffed animals. Feeling somewhat emboldened, I stepped right up to him and said:
"Get up."
Upon receiving no reply, I shook him gently. Then I shook him harder. Then I grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard enough to give him Shaken Baby Syndrome. Still no reply. Knowing I had to get him the fuck out of my bed, I raised my fist high above my head, and brought it down in one fell swoop, punching the side of his face as hard as I possibly could. Finally, an eyeball cracked open.
"Get the fuck out of my bed," I said.
"Mphjgfsuyfjsjf?" he replied.
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BED RIGHT THIS INSTANT!" I screamed, waking up the roommate in the next room over (who was, conveniently, looking for an excuse to wriggle out of the grasp of The Beefalo.)
Somehow Erin and I managed to drag him out of the bed, wrap him in the soaking wet, urine drenched sheet, and shove him out into the living room and onto the cot, where he promptly passed out, in all his naked, urine-covered glory. Luckily, Random Dude on the couch didn't wake up.
Feeling hysterical again, Erin and I barged into the Reds' room, waking them up and demanding a Tide Stain Stick (not that that would've helped at all.) I reverted right back to screaming "he peed in my bed! He peed in my bed!" which they both later thought was a nightmare, until the insanity of the next morning. But I don't want to get ahead of myself.
I spent the rest of the night/dawn/morning washing my sheets 6 times, and washing my blanket 4 times. I was chilled to the bone, horrified and panicked. My bed was my sanctuary. It was well known for being ridiculously comfortable, and I often cocooned myself in it - and some Marine had come along and urinated in it.
When I finally passed out, sometime around 7:30am, I wrapped myself in my untouched egg crate and entertained the idea of crying myself to sleep (truthfully I was too hysterical to do so, both out of horror and amusement, and spent the next few hours fitfully tossing and turning, coming in-and-out of consciousness, seeing rivers of yellow water pass through my mind.)
Around 10am, I blinked my eyes open, hearing people begin to stir in the other rooms. By this point, all 4 of my roommates were well aware of what had happened, and they were anxious not only to get the Marines the hell out of the apartment, but also to laugh their asses off without completely destroying whatever shreds of masculinity these poor individuals had. I heard The Urinator ask where I was, and ask if we wanted to go to iHop. The answer? Not a fucking chance in hell. I could hear my friends telling him I didn't feel well, that I needed to sleep and to leave me alone, but I heard him make his way over anyway.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep when he barged into the room, and it took every single ounce of self-restraint not to punch him in the face (again) when he said some cheesy goodnight line, and ran his fingers through my hair. I cringed and almost cried. Luckily, after that touching bit of insanity, the Marines left. Not realizing anything had happened the night before, and accepting the fact that everything was somehow different without even batting an eyelid.
Now, I'm not too sure about you guys, but if I woke up, butt-ass naked, in a room I didn't fall asleep in (on a bed I didn't fall asleep on - never mind a bed that hadn't been there the night before), wrapped in a still-damp sheet wreaking of urine, I might have a few questions. Such as:
- What did I do last night?
- Why do I smell urine so strongly?
- Why am I naked?
- How did I get out here?
- Where did this bed come from?
- Why do I smell like a Walmart bathroom?
The Marines, on the other hand, defied all laws of logic, and accepted it as merely "whatever." The Urinator dressed himself, the others all collected around his urine-wreaking body, and they all sauntered off as though it were the most perfectly normal thing in the world.
When they were gone, I woke up and washed my sheets again.
Later that day, as we're walking to a sorority powder puff football game (yes, we actually did retarded shit like that in the sorority), one of my roommates gets a call. From The Urinator. Sometime during his drunken wanderings that night, he lost his cell phone, and realized that he didn't have a way of getting in touch with me. Tragic. She got nervous and blurted out my phone number, not knowing what else to do.
When Kristyn found out what she'd done, we realized it was time to take matters into our own hands. Kristyn picked up her phone, and called The Urinator.
"Hey, [The Urinator]? Yeah, this is Kristyn, Chelsea's friend. Yeah, you can't call Chelsea, sorry."
Finally realizing that something was amiss (I suppose the whole "waking up naked and soaked in your own urine" thing wasn't enough indication at the time), he begged her to tell him what he'd done. This was how we heard her side of the conversation:
"Yeah, you pissed in her bed. Yeah, that is really embarrassing. Yeah, you better not call her. Bye!"
And that, my brave friends, was The Tale of The Urinator. And the Number 1 Awesome Adventure of 2007. Without my friend The Urinator, I wouldn't have the best "Never Have I Ever" at parties - I wouldn't have a guaranteed ice breaker with new people - I wouldn't have the best "Oh no, I can beat your Top 3 Things About Me List that professors always give on the first day of class!" ever. And I wouldn't have had quite as amazing a year. So thank you, Mr. Urinator. While you may be wasting away in shame, know that you will forever hold a special (and puppy piddle pad-covered) place in my heart.
Happy 2008, everyone! Here's to no more Marines urinating in your bed!
Scream like a wussy little girl, jump out of bed, and run screaming through my hallway, out the door, and down to the lobby, where I proceeded to continue screaming, and eventually frightened the hell out of a UPD officer. Erin came with me while I suffered what can only be described as Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. All I could say, over-and-over again, was "he peed in my bed... he peed in my bed... he peed... in my bed!" It was very tragic.
After about an hour of this, I finally collected myself enough to go back upstairs. When we arrived at the door, Erin and I realized that the cot that had been sitting outside in the hall earlier had not been claimed - we'd assumed our neighbors had requested it, but since it was now about approaching 4am, we figured no harm, no foul. First, we wheeled the cot into the room and into the living room - then it was time for The Urinator.
I approached cautiously, holding my breath, feeling my body tremble. He was asleep in a pool of his own urine, spread out like a drunk doing some macabre snow angle. By some miracle, he'd only managed to pee in my comforter, and, somehow, didn't get a single drop of urine on my quilt or on my beloved stuffed animals. Feeling somewhat emboldened, I stepped right up to him and said:
"Get up."
Upon receiving no reply, I shook him gently. Then I shook him harder. Then I grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard enough to give him Shaken Baby Syndrome. Still no reply. Knowing I had to get him the fuck out of my bed, I raised my fist high above my head, and brought it down in one fell swoop, punching the side of his face as hard as I possibly could. Finally, an eyeball cracked open.
"Get the fuck out of my bed," I said.
"Mphjgfsuyfjsjf?" he replied.
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BED RIGHT THIS INSTANT!" I screamed, waking up the roommate in the next room over (who was, conveniently, looking for an excuse to wriggle out of the grasp of The Beefalo.)
Somehow Erin and I managed to drag him out of the bed, wrap him in the soaking wet, urine drenched sheet, and shove him out into the living room and onto the cot, where he promptly passed out, in all his naked, urine-covered glory. Luckily, Random Dude on the couch didn't wake up.
Feeling hysterical again, Erin and I barged into the Reds' room, waking them up and demanding a Tide Stain Stick (not that that would've helped at all.) I reverted right back to screaming "he peed in my bed! He peed in my bed!" which they both later thought was a nightmare, until the insanity of the next morning. But I don't want to get ahead of myself.
I spent the rest of the night/dawn/morning washing my sheets 6 times, and washing my blanket 4 times. I was chilled to the bone, horrified and panicked. My bed was my sanctuary. It was well known for being ridiculously comfortable, and I often cocooned myself in it - and some Marine had come along and urinated in it.
When I finally passed out, sometime around 7:30am, I wrapped myself in my untouched egg crate and entertained the idea of crying myself to sleep (truthfully I was too hysterical to do so, both out of horror and amusement, and spent the next few hours fitfully tossing and turning, coming in-and-out of consciousness, seeing rivers of yellow water pass through my mind.)
Around 10am, I blinked my eyes open, hearing people begin to stir in the other rooms. By this point, all 4 of my roommates were well aware of what had happened, and they were anxious not only to get the Marines the hell out of the apartment, but also to laugh their asses off without completely destroying whatever shreds of masculinity these poor individuals had. I heard The Urinator ask where I was, and ask if we wanted to go to iHop. The answer? Not a fucking chance in hell. I could hear my friends telling him I didn't feel well, that I needed to sleep and to leave me alone, but I heard him make his way over anyway.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep when he barged into the room, and it took every single ounce of self-restraint not to punch him in the face (again) when he said some cheesy goodnight line, and ran his fingers through my hair. I cringed and almost cried. Luckily, after that touching bit of insanity, the Marines left. Not realizing anything had happened the night before, and accepting the fact that everything was somehow different without even batting an eyelid.
Now, I'm not too sure about you guys, but if I woke up, butt-ass naked, in a room I didn't fall asleep in (on a bed I didn't fall asleep on - never mind a bed that hadn't been there the night before), wrapped in a still-damp sheet wreaking of urine, I might have a few questions. Such as:
- What did I do last night?
- Why do I smell urine so strongly?
- Why am I naked?
- How did I get out here?
- Where did this bed come from?
- Why do I smell like a Walmart bathroom?
The Marines, on the other hand, defied all laws of logic, and accepted it as merely "whatever." The Urinator dressed himself, the others all collected around his urine-wreaking body, and they all sauntered off as though it were the most perfectly normal thing in the world.
When they were gone, I woke up and washed my sheets again.
Later that day, as we're walking to a sorority powder puff football game (yes, we actually did retarded shit like that in the sorority), one of my roommates gets a call. From The Urinator. Sometime during his drunken wanderings that night, he lost his cell phone, and realized that he didn't have a way of getting in touch with me. Tragic. She got nervous and blurted out my phone number, not knowing what else to do.
When Kristyn found out what she'd done, we realized it was time to take matters into our own hands. Kristyn picked up her phone, and called The Urinator.
"Hey, [The Urinator]? Yeah, this is Kristyn, Chelsea's friend. Yeah, you can't call Chelsea, sorry."
Finally realizing that something was amiss (I suppose the whole "waking up naked and soaked in your own urine" thing wasn't enough indication at the time), he begged her to tell him what he'd done. This was how we heard her side of the conversation:
"Yeah, you pissed in her bed. Yeah, that is really embarrassing. Yeah, you better not call her. Bye!"
And that, my brave friends, was The Tale of The Urinator. And the Number 1 Awesome Adventure of 2007. Without my friend The Urinator, I wouldn't have the best "Never Have I Ever" at parties - I wouldn't have a guaranteed ice breaker with new people - I wouldn't have the best "Oh no, I can beat your Top 3 Things About Me List that professors always give on the first day of class!" ever. And I wouldn't have had quite as amazing a year. So thank you, Mr. Urinator. While you may be wasting away in shame, know that you will forever hold a special (and puppy piddle pad-covered) place in my heart.
Happy 2008, everyone! Here's to no more Marines urinating in your bed!
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