11/02/2004 09:00:30 AM|||Travis||| Ouch
Oh why, oh why. Everything hurts. My elbows are cut and one hurts so its hard to move correctly. There are scrapes on my knuckles. The backs of my hands hurt pretty bad on both sides. My back is a little sore. A strange pain is lingering in the back of my right knee... and the front of it doesn't feel so go either. The tops of both my feet hurt, like someone jumped on them ten times. The two right next to my little toe, that is to say, my second smallest toe, is smashed a bit with a little redness/swolleness around the nail. There is still dried blood in my nose. The inside of my cheeks hurt pretty damn bad, and are really cut up. Little pieces of cheek keeps peeling off the inside because of all the cuts.
My room isn't too much better, at least before I cleaned it. My lampshade has been redesigned for a more abstract sort of feel, and my waste paper basket has some interesting twists and bends in it just for fun. Its still functional. I dunno about the lamp, I haven't tried to turn it on just yet. Even still, my room has a vague smell of beer. I guess some got into the carpet and is hiding.
So what happened? Apparently the Irish in me took over. For those that have known me for a long time, at some point you have seen this part of me. For others, this may be a first. Actually, there were several firsts of the night.
I believe it all started when I got into a good conversation with a friend of a friend about real estate. Up to that point, I thought the guy was a complete chode. Aparently, not. He was really financialy literate, and knew quite a bit about the real estate market and had worked as a broker for 3 years, making good money. We got into a couple arguments as to how bad neg ams are (I still maintain that its a great way to get a place, he did not) but overall it was good. And then there was the silly stuff he kept mentioning about how his friends are ultimate fighters. That is perhaps when the fighting began.
I say perhaps because my memory was clouded with vanallia martinis. For those of you not handy with a bar, that is about three shots of vanallia vodka with some bailey's or imitation bailey's to cut the flavor. When it is cooled in a shaker and served- it tastes somewhat like a milkshake, and you have NO IDEA that it is such a strong drink. I always liked how good bartenders can mask the taste of alchohol, and this certainly is a good way to meet that goal. But sooner or later these things can catch up to you, and what happens then? What happens you say, well you call out your new friend on his BS about how all his friends are ultimate fighters and that he could beat anyone up.
For those of you not farmilar with fighting, its pretty easy to start. Just say “pussy” in a loud clear voice while extending the palm of your hand into your friends chest. He will then procede to grab your hand and pull some goddamn wrestling move on you, and even though he is only 150 pounds, still manage to subdue you on the ground.
I still have a good memory of one particular choke hold that he got me in. ouch. I like breathing big deep breaths, and when someone is strangling you that is impossible, and choke is certainly what your body starts to do. I don't think I ever felt a good choke that was created by another person who put pressure on my neck before. So then we probably felt nice and close at this point. There is something about fighting with a friend that cements things in a strange way. And what happened next? More bonding. This time, it was fight club style.
God damn Chuck Palahniuk. Why did you have that friend-fight scene? And why do I keep bringing it up in dangerous situations? Such as when you and your friend have just got done wrestling? Because the outcome is certainly painful. In my case, you could hear the smack of a fist hitting a face, and then an excited cheer from the very same face that was smashed. “FuuCK! That was a good one. Ok my turn!” and then this was repeated several times, until no doubt someone got in a punch that was just too good, one that makes you go- ohhhh, damn, sorry man didn't mean to bruise you up so bad!
But then, after something like that, Chuck is right. Everything and everyone else is drowned out. Its like the volume is turned down. Nothing matters, we were afraid of nothing. After you are punched in the face and like it, what really can happen to you? So what do you do but go over to the frat house next door, that happens to be the biggest (as in physical size) frat on the campus PIKE and start telling them just how sexually active their mothers actually are. Or just how weak they are, or how badly they would lose if they were to happen to come out and try to fight. Luckily for my body, they were at some date party in Mexico, so the entire house was empty. But you can't say that we didn't try.
My memory is completely gone at this point in the night, but memory is a strange and communal. The next day is a great time to talk to all the residences that I knocked on at this point in the night (its 5AM by now, as some accounts say) and hear about how we threw garbage cans off the balcony and shouted at whoever came outside, including the resident manager. These stories as you will find out, raise your social status, even though on the surface it looks bad. It gets everyone to talk about you. Anyways, the manager told us to knock it off. I then proceded to call him a pussy, like everyone else, and asked him if he thought he could get out of a headlock. He then proceded to arm lock me into a wall and asked us one final time to settle down. After we didn't, the cops were informed of our disorderly behavior, and sent onto the scene.
Police know how to end fighting fast. I think they are professionals at it. At the time they came, we were apparently fighting in my room, and it took almost a minute for us to even acknowledge that they came. When we did see them, my friend said “just wait a second so I can put a shirt on. Then I will come out there and kick your ass.” Not a good thing to say to police. Not at all. As soon as he left my room, he was met with a nice cloud of MACE and sent immediately to the floor. Pathetically, he fight-clubish vision was shattered as the MACE worked its way through his system, forcing him to writhe in pain on the ground.
Like I said, memory is a fleeting and communal thing. And when I woke up, I was all alone, both in my room and in my mind. I awoke on the ground, which I remember thinking is strange. What was more strange, was the fact that the resident manager, that is, not the onsite manager who I called a pussy, but his immediate boss, was knocking on my door. My room was in disarry, the bed was shaken off itself, and there was empty beer cans all over the floor. The lamp was knocked over and broken and my garbage can was crumpled on a pile on the floor. I actually did not notice any of this, and since I had not talked to anyone yet, my memory did not have time to take the pieces of everyone's story and try to construct some sort of coherent picture. I literally felt like it was a regular morning, although a little hungover, and that the only strange thing was that I decided to sleep on the floor for some reason. The manager's look of horror was simply priceless, as to add to the picture is dried blood on my face, around my mouth and in my nose. The eye liner and eye shadow was also probably a good addition as well. And to top it off, I was comparable to a patient suffering from amnesia, who remembered nothing of police and when asked about the garbage cans that were relocated in a non-safe manor from the second floor to the first, all I could say was “that was me!?” with a look that really let the manager feel just how little memory I had left at this point. All he could do was shake his head and hand me a shovel to clean up the mess.
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