College Condensed
Moving from high school, college presented an entirely new dynamic. The classes were harder, the tests, too, and the teachers weren't at all willing to put up with cut-ups and silly comments. During my first year at Davidson, my GPA continued plummeting from the heights it had reached in 9th and 10th grade, and I withdrew during class because I couldn't joke around and didn’t know any social or academic alternatives.
In high school, when I'd tape the long hair of the girl sitting in front of me to my desk, pinning her head when she eventually tried to move forward, the class would laugh, as they would when I'd shove pieces of fruit and vegetables up my nose or poke people with 8-foot-long poles I'd constructed connecting Capri-Sun straws. In college, though, where it seems all anybody wants to do is learn, people looked at the interruptions I cherished like immature nuisances – maybe that’s just a "smart" private college phenomenon, I’m not sure.
Certainly, no college professor I know would allow students to stop class, tape a sleeping student to his desk with rolls of tape, then parade him up and down the halls during the class change, a handful of taping conspirators carrying the desk the now wide awake student still sat in, trapped. That's not to knock all professors, because I had some brilliant instructors with great senses of humor, it's was just a different type of learning environment. I wouldn't dare mimic my time wasting high school theatre class antics, like when Curtis and I designed a mini-play that involved us sitting on stage, listening to music, and doing actual homework for other classes, Mrs. Mott angrily marching the rest of the class out of the auditorium after a few minutes. Most sadly of all, in College it no longer felt comfortable to walk around with massive fake boogers, made by rubbing the sticky side of tape or stickers until the stickiness balls up, dangling from my nose, playing dumb to everyone kind enough to point out the embarrassing booger boulders. The atmosphere was too uptight.
So, at Davidson, needing to create an identity for myself amidst a sea of polo shirts and popped collars, I painted my fingernails black, complementing my wardrobe of predominantly black t-shirts. Now I was recognizable, and frightening to the most conservative and traditional, "Is he, like, you know, a Satanist? Ewwwww." Playing up the black fingernail shtick, I relied on lies to build a reputation. Negative publicity really is good publicity, and I always get a kick out of distorting people's perceptions of myself, testing the limits of gullibility.
To kick things off, one of my first weekends at Davidson was spent walking around, telling everyone I saw that a fellow freshman had been hit by a car and killed. The story went that he was playing in the sewer, got bored and decided to leave, climbed a nearby ladder and pushed open the heavy metal cover, then began hoisting himself up. Tragically, though, having unwittingly chosen a sewer exit positioned in the middle of a highway, the bumper of a fast traveling car caught him square in the face so that his "head popped off like a Lego." To my astonishment, if I got through the entire story without laughing, more often than not it was believed. Fuck, people, nobody but the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles play in the sewer.
My black fingernails evidence I was crazy, evil, and unstable, my next major lie was my best ever, spreading across the campus for months. Eventually, my friends would report hearing it repeated by people that didn't actually know me, but knew of PBA and his terrible exploits. I became a legend without doing a thing.
It started at lunch one day, sitting with some other freshman I didn't know too well, explaining to them how, as a native Davidsonian, I'd decided to attend Davidson College. The question was asked, "How many other kids do that?" and I named the few others I knew. "Yeah, I've known Brandon since elementary school. We were in the same Boy Scouts troop, and we used to hang out together." For no other reasons than being bored and a compulsive lair, I decided to use my imagination to spice the conversation.
"Actually, I used to spend a lot of time with him." Pause. "Until I killed his cat."
"WHAT? No way." My tablemates set down their drinks and silverware, exchanging glances. "What are you talking about?"
As I improvised the story, it grew ridiculous, more and more so with each subsequent retelling, rehashings mounting in frequency as the word spread. What made the story most convincing was Brandon's playing along, particularly on that first day in the cafeteria, when he happened to walk by my table, pausing to confirm the details of my lie without flinching, convincing the unconvinced.
Fully blown, the story said in 4th grade I'd been a much more disturbed child, the kind that needed regular psychiatric counseling and an array of meds. One time, while at Brandon's house, while he and his parents were in another room, I'd preheated the oven to nearly 500 degrees. After coaxing the family cat within my reach, I'd picked it up, yanked open the oven door, tossed in the cat, and slammed shut the door. Then, sitting cross-legged on the linoleum kitchen floor, peering through the oven door's glass window, I'd watched the cat claw and crash around in desperation before finally combusting. When Brandon and his parents came to investigate the commotion and the unusual stench I’d apologized without emotion, afterward being banned forever from their residence and ushered into therapy. I liked to conclude the story by saying, "But I'm much better now," then watch my audience all glance at my black fingernails.
It is just too fucking easy to manipulate people. I can't help myself.
Sometime during sophomore year I stopped painting my nails. But by then I was considered a certified crazy. Whether blacking-out and slapping random people, talking generally funny shit or gibberish the whole time, or getting mad about losing a game of Beirut, telling one of my opponents, "I like you," then the other, "but fuck you," and whipping a full beer can at his head, narrowly missing and denting the wall just behind him, I was sometimes out of control.
Such a lack of control was documented on my infamous Celsius 149 DVD, the final submission and my first video creation for an independent film class; the title, supposedly the temperature at which flesh burns. Years worth of drinking exploits caught on tape, from high school beach trips to blacked-out nights in College, won over the surprisingly large student audience, 100+ I think, but not even their laughing could convince the professor judges to award Mr. McKinney and I the top prize. But fuck 'em, we won the popularity contest, with people still asking me for copies of the DVD two years later.
Often, I chose to push boundaries for the sake of the joke, forsaking political correctness in favor of stunned reactions, riotous laughter or awkward silence, either as rewarding as the other. My favorite in-class moment at Davidson, for instance, occurred during my first semester when I gave a PowerPoint presentation about the Patriot Act to my political science class. Since my topic required mentions of terrorists and terrorism, I inserted an easily identifiable photograph of my good but still new Pakistani pal and fellow classmate Usman -- without his consent, if I remember correctly -- under the heading TERRORISM. Usman loved it as I thought he would, thus cementing our friendship, but the rest of the class was mortified, just as I'd hoped.
It was rather shortly into Freshman year I realized I couldn't be a dick in class, with few exceptions, but outside it was quite easy, even acceptable. After that, College life became exponentially more enjoyable. Bored on several occasions, my friends and I shot off fire extinguishers, coughing and laughing through the white clouds. Usman and I sprayed realistic piles of poo in public places with my appropriately labeled bottle of "Instant Smelly Shit," the best episode occurring when we covered the soda can-width rim of a recycling container to look like someone had aimed their waste into the hole -- and failed. Waking the next day, our efforts were rewarded, "Dude, did you hear someone shit in the basement of Richardson last night?" No, but please, tell me all about it.
I disregarded College regulations and rules. I tossed lit fireworks at people on a regular basis. One day I tossed an M-60 out the window, intending it to land near some kids I knew standing outside. The only problem was there was a tree in my way, and threading the branches didn't work out exactly as I'd planned. It worked out better. The firework deflected of one branch, then another, finally falling directly onto the large, curly hair cushioned head of the plump boy below. The M-60 bounced off, exploding somewhere between his chin and knees. He jumped and yelled, and I took off for my room before he looked up at the window. Shutting the door, panting and laughing with my roommate, Will, I took my place at my computer and opened a random textbook for effect. Minutes later, after listening to the loud knocks and interrogating voices making their way down the hall, door-to-door, my two classmates arrived. "Come in," I answered.
The door swung open, banging against the doorstop and rebounding quickly. Both boys walked in, the one I hadn't hit approaching aggressively, the actual victim hanging back in uncertainty. Without stopping, the angry friend landed a hard blow to my shoulder, then stood back, making way for the timidly approaching pranked punk, who landed a much meeker blow but seemed rather proud of himself. I didn't react in the way they seemed to expect I might, instead turning my body around, still seated, to look at and laugh with Will. Finding a breath in between laughs, I finally responded, "Well, alright dudes, that's cool," then continued laughing. They left without a word, leaving the door open behind them. Will and I concurred, their hilarious, if mildly painful, reaction to my mischief definitely justified my actions.
Later freshman year, during a major ice storm that had destroyed a local power station and downed power lines across the region, Will and I, armed with bottle rockets and roman candles, climbed the steps in our dorm, assuming a vantage point at the 4th story window. As people baby-stepped by outside, carefully traversing the treacherously iced terrain, we lit our fireworks and took aim through the open window. It was a beautiful setup. Our unsuspecting targets wouldn't be able to move fast enough to escape our firing, and if they tried, they'd bust their asses.
When the sky started raining multi-colored balls of fire, the students walking by freaked out and tried to hurry away. We laughed at their futility, then waited for another passerby. After a few rounds, someone ascended the staircase, emerging into the hall through the doors just beside us. "You the guys shooting the fireworks?" I turned, smoking fireworks and a lighter in hand, and suppressed a sarcastic remark, "Yeah, it's awesome. You wanna get somebody?"
"No, I'm RLO."
Ohhh, FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK
"I'm going to have to take those," he stated, arms extended, "and your names, too."
I gave my name, he wrote it down, and I was summoned to a Code of Responsibility violation meeting the next week. At the meeting, sitting alone on one long side of rectangular table, across from several Deans of Students and RLO toolbags, those pussyass sellout bitches of peers who patrol the campus and rat on their friends in the name of "order" and "safety" and "no fun," everyone but me taking themselves waaaaaay to seriously with their intense stares and refusal to smile, I wanted to remind them I'd shot off a few fireworks, not raped a drunk co-ed or clubbed a goose to death. They kept insisting what I'd done was highly illegal, and had I not read the Red Book that outlines a few reasonable rules and a whole bunch of bullshit ones, because not reading it was a violation in itself. After acting high-and-mighty for a while, the dipshits leading the proceedings noting it was time for their free TV lessons from Judge Judy, I was excused and ordered to give a hall presentation on fireworks safety. A week later, gathering all my hallmates, I informed, "Don't do fireworks, blah blah blah, or just don't get caught." My cool ass hall counselors signed a sheet saying I'd performed my required service, and I was free.
But a little scare from the administration couldn't derail fun and a blatant disregard for policy. Another night, maybe freshman year, Usman and I posed as RLO. Imitating the stiff dress and mannerisms of the weekend underage-drinking and you're-being-too-loud-for-me-to-study-so-I'm-gonna-get-you-in-trouble patrol -- while we ourselves were underage and drunk -- we strolled up and down dorm hallways and around campus with clipboards, accosting anyone we saw, underage or not. "Sir," or, "Mam," we'd start, "have you been drinking?" They usually replied in the negative, but we'd continue harassing them, demanding information like name, birthdate, telephone and Social Security number, bringing some of the girls to tears and petrifying some of the boys with threats of expulsion and huge fines we knew we couldn't level -- nor would we ever want to, as Usman, I, and every other drinker on campus loathed RLO and everything it stands for, basically ruining fun and parties. Eventually, we encountered real RLO personnel, who were none too pleased at our spot on impersonations. They confiscated our clipboards and warned of harsh punishments should we ever repeat our stunt. We laughed, then went on a drinking binge.
Junior year, Will, still my roommate, and I stole furniture from our hallmates:
By junior year, however, lying, at which I was once so adept, had taken a backseat to troublemaking, and even more sex, except when lying helped get sex or kept a partner happy so sex might continue. After one long night of drinking, I called the girl I'd been hooking up with for some time. In my condition it was amazing I could remember, and even more impressive dial, her number. "I'mcomingover," I spit into the receiver, burping a little, "sowecan,hahaoohhh,hangout ahhhhh." When I barreled into her room, she helped me into bed. The next thing I knew, I was waking up to sunlight. Groggy, not recovered from the night before, I noticed I was taking up 9/10ths of the bed, pushing the girl into corner of her bed, wedging her between my gangly, sprawling limbs and the wall. She noticed I was awake. "God, can you move over. You totally pushed me into the corner last night and took all the room." Her anger was evident. "And did I hear you spitting last night? It sounded like you spit a huge loogie." No way, I promised, explaining to her I'd never do such a thing, being too nice and too clean a boy, raised by a proper Southern women who didn't stand for spitting unless it was on a baseball diamond and only then as long as she didn't see it. I soon walked back to my room, seeking my own bed, away from the prudish girl I didn't know why I kept coming back to except that I was too shy to pursue anyone else and afraid of losing a reliable hookup. Back in my dorm, I recounted the story to my roommate, both of us laughing so hard the short story took five minutes to finish, both of us fully aware I frequently spit huge, inappropriate globs without considering location when I'm hammered, wondering where I'd launched the wad last night and how long it would be before my hookup found it.
Inspired by my minor dishonesty, happily returning to my creative lying ways, I soon invented a story intended to dissuade the worst-voiced-ever one-night stand – who had came crawling back the next night to be softly, kindly rejected – from ever entertaining Pat-sexing notions again. Starting from scratch with Colin one evening, wanting to make sure I didn’t get drunk around that girl again, I had to explain to her why I wasn’t drinking at a particular party we'd both attended. Knowing it would hurt her feelings if I said, “Because you’re here, and I sure as fuck never want to go home with you again,” I told her, in all seriousness, “I’ve given up drinking, uh, wow, it's hard to talk about, since, well, the incident.”
“The incident? Oh, my! What happened?” she quickly asked, concern lost behind the piercing whine of her voice. I wanted to say stop talking, but, again, being such a sensitive guy, I figured the better solution would be to just keep talking, never letting her interject commentary.
“Well, I got really, really drunk one night recently. I’ve had episodes before, you know. But nothing like this. This was scary. I just lost control. I took off all my clothes and ran into the woods, stark naked. It was night, and I got down on all fours like any wild animal. I started exploring, creeping around like a predator, careful and calculating in each step. Finally, I spotted some small creature, about the size of a raccoon or cat. Fuck. I don’t know what it was. Anyway, something in my mind told me I had to track it, so I did. The animal was distracted by some other task so I eased my way toward it. I took fucking minutes to move inches, like a professional killer of a wood’s creature. Finally, when I was close enough, I lashed out and snagged the little critter before it could react. I raised it to my mouth and bit it.” I swallowed, glad the mesmerized bitch didn’t try to say anything. “Over and over. Fucking hard, too. I killed it. Can you believe it? I tore it to shreds with my bare teeth. Then I went back home and went to sleep. So you can probably understand why I’m not drinking now, right?”
She didn’t answer the question, choosing instead to confound me. “Wow, Pat,” she laughed, “Well, if there’s anyone I would expect to do that, it would be you.”
What the motherfuck?
There you are, I’ve acted and lied my way into the reputation of an asshole maniac, even though I’m not.
Really.
In high school, when I'd tape the long hair of the girl sitting in front of me to my desk, pinning her head when she eventually tried to move forward, the class would laugh, as they would when I'd shove pieces of fruit and vegetables up my nose or poke people with 8-foot-long poles I'd constructed connecting Capri-Sun straws. In college, though, where it seems all anybody wants to do is learn, people looked at the interruptions I cherished like immature nuisances – maybe that’s just a "smart" private college phenomenon, I’m not sure.
Certainly, no college professor I know would allow students to stop class, tape a sleeping student to his desk with rolls of tape, then parade him up and down the halls during the class change, a handful of taping conspirators carrying the desk the now wide awake student still sat in, trapped. That's not to knock all professors, because I had some brilliant instructors with great senses of humor, it's was just a different type of learning environment. I wouldn't dare mimic my time wasting high school theatre class antics, like when Curtis and I designed a mini-play that involved us sitting on stage, listening to music, and doing actual homework for other classes, Mrs. Mott angrily marching the rest of the class out of the auditorium after a few minutes. Most sadly of all, in College it no longer felt comfortable to walk around with massive fake boogers, made by rubbing the sticky side of tape or stickers until the stickiness balls up, dangling from my nose, playing dumb to everyone kind enough to point out the embarrassing booger boulders. The atmosphere was too uptight.
So, at Davidson, needing to create an identity for myself amidst a sea of polo shirts and popped collars, I painted my fingernails black, complementing my wardrobe of predominantly black t-shirts. Now I was recognizable, and frightening to the most conservative and traditional, "Is he, like, you know, a Satanist? Ewwwww." Playing up the black fingernail shtick, I relied on lies to build a reputation. Negative publicity really is good publicity, and I always get a kick out of distorting people's perceptions of myself, testing the limits of gullibility.
To kick things off, one of my first weekends at Davidson was spent walking around, telling everyone I saw that a fellow freshman had been hit by a car and killed. The story went that he was playing in the sewer, got bored and decided to leave, climbed a nearby ladder and pushed open the heavy metal cover, then began hoisting himself up. Tragically, though, having unwittingly chosen a sewer exit positioned in the middle of a highway, the bumper of a fast traveling car caught him square in the face so that his "head popped off like a Lego." To my astonishment, if I got through the entire story without laughing, more often than not it was believed. Fuck, people, nobody but the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles play in the sewer.
My black fingernails evidence I was crazy, evil, and unstable, my next major lie was my best ever, spreading across the campus for months. Eventually, my friends would report hearing it repeated by people that didn't actually know me, but knew of PBA and his terrible exploits. I became a legend without doing a thing.
It started at lunch one day, sitting with some other freshman I didn't know too well, explaining to them how, as a native Davidsonian, I'd decided to attend Davidson College. The question was asked, "How many other kids do that?" and I named the few others I knew. "Yeah, I've known Brandon since elementary school. We were in the same Boy Scouts troop, and we used to hang out together." For no other reasons than being bored and a compulsive lair, I decided to use my imagination to spice the conversation.
"Actually, I used to spend a lot of time with him." Pause. "Until I killed his cat."
"WHAT? No way." My tablemates set down their drinks and silverware, exchanging glances. "What are you talking about?"
As I improvised the story, it grew ridiculous, more and more so with each subsequent retelling, rehashings mounting in frequency as the word spread. What made the story most convincing was Brandon's playing along, particularly on that first day in the cafeteria, when he happened to walk by my table, pausing to confirm the details of my lie without flinching, convincing the unconvinced.
Fully blown, the story said in 4th grade I'd been a much more disturbed child, the kind that needed regular psychiatric counseling and an array of meds. One time, while at Brandon's house, while he and his parents were in another room, I'd preheated the oven to nearly 500 degrees. After coaxing the family cat within my reach, I'd picked it up, yanked open the oven door, tossed in the cat, and slammed shut the door. Then, sitting cross-legged on the linoleum kitchen floor, peering through the oven door's glass window, I'd watched the cat claw and crash around in desperation before finally combusting. When Brandon and his parents came to investigate the commotion and the unusual stench I’d apologized without emotion, afterward being banned forever from their residence and ushered into therapy. I liked to conclude the story by saying, "But I'm much better now," then watch my audience all glance at my black fingernails.
It is just too fucking easy to manipulate people. I can't help myself.
Sometime during sophomore year I stopped painting my nails. But by then I was considered a certified crazy. Whether blacking-out and slapping random people, talking generally funny shit or gibberish the whole time, or getting mad about losing a game of Beirut, telling one of my opponents, "I like you," then the other, "but fuck you," and whipping a full beer can at his head, narrowly missing and denting the wall just behind him, I was sometimes out of control.
Such a lack of control was documented on my infamous Celsius 149 DVD, the final submission and my first video creation for an independent film class; the title, supposedly the temperature at which flesh burns. Years worth of drinking exploits caught on tape, from high school beach trips to blacked-out nights in College, won over the surprisingly large student audience, 100+ I think, but not even their laughing could convince the professor judges to award Mr. McKinney and I the top prize. But fuck 'em, we won the popularity contest, with people still asking me for copies of the DVD two years later.
Often, I chose to push boundaries for the sake of the joke, forsaking political correctness in favor of stunned reactions, riotous laughter or awkward silence, either as rewarding as the other. My favorite in-class moment at Davidson, for instance, occurred during my first semester when I gave a PowerPoint presentation about the Patriot Act to my political science class. Since my topic required mentions of terrorists and terrorism, I inserted an easily identifiable photograph of my good but still new Pakistani pal and fellow classmate Usman -- without his consent, if I remember correctly -- under the heading TERRORISM. Usman loved it as I thought he would, thus cementing our friendship, but the rest of the class was mortified, just as I'd hoped.
It was rather shortly into Freshman year I realized I couldn't be a dick in class, with few exceptions, but outside it was quite easy, even acceptable. After that, College life became exponentially more enjoyable. Bored on several occasions, my friends and I shot off fire extinguishers, coughing and laughing through the white clouds. Usman and I sprayed realistic piles of poo in public places with my appropriately labeled bottle of "Instant Smelly Shit," the best episode occurring when we covered the soda can-width rim of a recycling container to look like someone had aimed their waste into the hole -- and failed. Waking the next day, our efforts were rewarded, "Dude, did you hear someone shit in the basement of Richardson last night?" No, but please, tell me all about it.
I disregarded College regulations and rules. I tossed lit fireworks at people on a regular basis. One day I tossed an M-60 out the window, intending it to land near some kids I knew standing outside. The only problem was there was a tree in my way, and threading the branches didn't work out exactly as I'd planned. It worked out better. The firework deflected of one branch, then another, finally falling directly onto the large, curly hair cushioned head of the plump boy below. The M-60 bounced off, exploding somewhere between his chin and knees. He jumped and yelled, and I took off for my room before he looked up at the window. Shutting the door, panting and laughing with my roommate, Will, I took my place at my computer and opened a random textbook for effect. Minutes later, after listening to the loud knocks and interrogating voices making their way down the hall, door-to-door, my two classmates arrived. "Come in," I answered.
The door swung open, banging against the doorstop and rebounding quickly. Both boys walked in, the one I hadn't hit approaching aggressively, the actual victim hanging back in uncertainty. Without stopping, the angry friend landed a hard blow to my shoulder, then stood back, making way for the timidly approaching pranked punk, who landed a much meeker blow but seemed rather proud of himself. I didn't react in the way they seemed to expect I might, instead turning my body around, still seated, to look at and laugh with Will. Finding a breath in between laughs, I finally responded, "Well, alright dudes, that's cool," then continued laughing. They left without a word, leaving the door open behind them. Will and I concurred, their hilarious, if mildly painful, reaction to my mischief definitely justified my actions.
Later freshman year, during a major ice storm that had destroyed a local power station and downed power lines across the region, Will and I, armed with bottle rockets and roman candles, climbed the steps in our dorm, assuming a vantage point at the 4th story window. As people baby-stepped by outside, carefully traversing the treacherously iced terrain, we lit our fireworks and took aim through the open window. It was a beautiful setup. Our unsuspecting targets wouldn't be able to move fast enough to escape our firing, and if they tried, they'd bust their asses.
When the sky started raining multi-colored balls of fire, the students walking by freaked out and tried to hurry away. We laughed at their futility, then waited for another passerby. After a few rounds, someone ascended the staircase, emerging into the hall through the doors just beside us. "You the guys shooting the fireworks?" I turned, smoking fireworks and a lighter in hand, and suppressed a sarcastic remark, "Yeah, it's awesome. You wanna get somebody?"
"No, I'm RLO."
Ohhh, FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK
"I'm going to have to take those," he stated, arms extended, "and your names, too."
I gave my name, he wrote it down, and I was summoned to a Code of Responsibility violation meeting the next week. At the meeting, sitting alone on one long side of rectangular table, across from several Deans of Students and RLO toolbags, those pussyass sellout bitches of peers who patrol the campus and rat on their friends in the name of "order" and "safety" and "no fun," everyone but me taking themselves waaaaaay to seriously with their intense stares and refusal to smile, I wanted to remind them I'd shot off a few fireworks, not raped a drunk co-ed or clubbed a goose to death. They kept insisting what I'd done was highly illegal, and had I not read the Red Book that outlines a few reasonable rules and a whole bunch of bullshit ones, because not reading it was a violation in itself. After acting high-and-mighty for a while, the dipshits leading the proceedings noting it was time for their free TV lessons from Judge Judy, I was excused and ordered to give a hall presentation on fireworks safety. A week later, gathering all my hallmates, I informed, "Don't do fireworks, blah blah blah, or just don't get caught." My cool ass hall counselors signed a sheet saying I'd performed my required service, and I was free.
But a little scare from the administration couldn't derail fun and a blatant disregard for policy. Another night, maybe freshman year, Usman and I posed as RLO. Imitating the stiff dress and mannerisms of the weekend underage-drinking and you're-being-too-loud-for-me-to-study-so-I'm-gonna-get-you-in-trouble patrol -- while we ourselves were underage and drunk -- we strolled up and down dorm hallways and around campus with clipboards, accosting anyone we saw, underage or not. "Sir," or, "Mam," we'd start, "have you been drinking?" They usually replied in the negative, but we'd continue harassing them, demanding information like name, birthdate, telephone and Social Security number, bringing some of the girls to tears and petrifying some of the boys with threats of expulsion and huge fines we knew we couldn't level -- nor would we ever want to, as Usman, I, and every other drinker on campus loathed RLO and everything it stands for, basically ruining fun and parties. Eventually, we encountered real RLO personnel, who were none too pleased at our spot on impersonations. They confiscated our clipboards and warned of harsh punishments should we ever repeat our stunt. We laughed, then went on a drinking binge.
Junior year, Will, still my roommate, and I stole furniture from our hallmates:
Hey guys. I hope you're doing well. Upon unlocking Patrick's door for him, I noticed that the girls' pod table was in your suite. The girls have been looking for their table for some time now. Please be advised that the pod furniture is not to leave the pod. You need to return the table to the pod ASAP. It's not fair to the residents. Thanks for your cooperation!One Friday night, so drunk I could barely stand, I smashed a frat window with a champagne bottle after becoming enraged the house members wouldn't let my underage friends drink, but also because the toughguy frat-stars had to talk shit, too. "Fuck a fight when I can break shit," that's my motto.
Erika
By junior year, however, lying, at which I was once so adept, had taken a backseat to troublemaking, and even more sex, except when lying helped get sex or kept a partner happy so sex might continue. After one long night of drinking, I called the girl I'd been hooking up with for some time. In my condition it was amazing I could remember, and even more impressive dial, her number. "I'mcomingover," I spit into the receiver, burping a little, "sowecan,hahaoohhh,hangout ahhhhh." When I barreled into her room, she helped me into bed. The next thing I knew, I was waking up to sunlight. Groggy, not recovered from the night before, I noticed I was taking up 9/10ths of the bed, pushing the girl into corner of her bed, wedging her between my gangly, sprawling limbs and the wall. She noticed I was awake. "God, can you move over. You totally pushed me into the corner last night and took all the room." Her anger was evident. "And did I hear you spitting last night? It sounded like you spit a huge loogie." No way, I promised, explaining to her I'd never do such a thing, being too nice and too clean a boy, raised by a proper Southern women who didn't stand for spitting unless it was on a baseball diamond and only then as long as she didn't see it. I soon walked back to my room, seeking my own bed, away from the prudish girl I didn't know why I kept coming back to except that I was too shy to pursue anyone else and afraid of losing a reliable hookup. Back in my dorm, I recounted the story to my roommate, both of us laughing so hard the short story took five minutes to finish, both of us fully aware I frequently spit huge, inappropriate globs without considering location when I'm hammered, wondering where I'd launched the wad last night and how long it would be before my hookup found it.
Inspired by my minor dishonesty, happily returning to my creative lying ways, I soon invented a story intended to dissuade the worst-voiced-ever one-night stand – who had came crawling back the next night to be softly, kindly rejected – from ever entertaining Pat-sexing notions again. Starting from scratch with Colin one evening, wanting to make sure I didn’t get drunk around that girl again, I had to explain to her why I wasn’t drinking at a particular party we'd both attended. Knowing it would hurt her feelings if I said, “Because you’re here, and I sure as fuck never want to go home with you again,” I told her, in all seriousness, “I’ve given up drinking, uh, wow, it's hard to talk about, since, well, the incident.”
“The incident? Oh, my! What happened?” she quickly asked, concern lost behind the piercing whine of her voice. I wanted to say stop talking, but, again, being such a sensitive guy, I figured the better solution would be to just keep talking, never letting her interject commentary.
“Well, I got really, really drunk one night recently. I’ve had episodes before, you know. But nothing like this. This was scary. I just lost control. I took off all my clothes and ran into the woods, stark naked. It was night, and I got down on all fours like any wild animal. I started exploring, creeping around like a predator, careful and calculating in each step. Finally, I spotted some small creature, about the size of a raccoon or cat. Fuck. I don’t know what it was. Anyway, something in my mind told me I had to track it, so I did. The animal was distracted by some other task so I eased my way toward it. I took fucking minutes to move inches, like a professional killer of a wood’s creature. Finally, when I was close enough, I lashed out and snagged the little critter before it could react. I raised it to my mouth and bit it.” I swallowed, glad the mesmerized bitch didn’t try to say anything. “Over and over. Fucking hard, too. I killed it. Can you believe it? I tore it to shreds with my bare teeth. Then I went back home and went to sleep. So you can probably understand why I’m not drinking now, right?”
She didn’t answer the question, choosing instead to confound me. “Wow, Pat,” she laughed, “Well, if there’s anyone I would expect to do that, it would be you.”
What the motherfuck?
There you are, I’ve acted and lied my way into the reputation of an asshole maniac, even though I’m not.
Really.
posted by Mr. Pibba at 3:28 PM
1 Comments:
i like this post... i don't like you though. just wanted to keep that part clear. umm i am leaving sewanee on saturday i think, you getting back the 24th?
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