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heart changed the record immediately, drawing boos from the crowd that just seemed to fit with my long march of defeat. My friends were waiting with cold beers to salve the searing wound to my pride. The white trash girl hanging all over my friend Mike had a comment: "Jesus what a bitch!" She paused to look her way and snap her gum before continuing, "Want me to slap her around for ya?" "No, thats alright," I chuckled, "but thanks for the offer." I proceeded to get shit-faced hammered. The next afternoon I woke up with the hangover youre probably expecting I had. My head was pounding and I swear to this day that my stomach was digesting itself. Thoughts of smashing the overhead fluorescent reminders of the evils of alcohol abuse swam through the pool of mercury that evil monkeys had swapped for my brain as I trudged down the hall to the elevators. The elevator dropped leaving my guts on the seventh floor as I descended to the basement to head to The Spot. There was a tunnel between the two dorm towers in the complex that housed things like student mailboxes and a snack bar. The Spot was the small student run convenience store in the middle of it. I was on a collision course with some Tylenol and the biggest bottle of Evian I could find. Working in the spot that afternoon was my pal John and his friend Becky. John had a bit of a crush on Becky and while they were pretty good friends, Becky wasnt really all that into John romantically. Their shift was over and they were heading to Beckys room to hang and decompress. "John tells me you had a rough night," says Becky. "Oh does he? Youre a sweetheart John." I was a bit grumpy as I downed my Tylenol. Half of my didnt want to bother with the wrapper but I figured painkillers would probably hit my bloodstream a little faster if I took the time to remove it. "Well well, someone doesnt take rejection to well, huh?" was Johns reply. "Aaah, fuck you," I chuckled when I realized I was kind of being a dick. "Sorry man, its this hangover, its gonna kill me. What are you guys up to?" "Well we were going to head over to Beckys room and just chill out for a little while," John beamed. "My computers decided it doesnt like me and John here was nice enough to offer to look at it," was Beckys explanation. John was a computer science major and quite talented at diagnosing the ills that plague these evil boxes we rely upon so heavily. "Why dont you come and hang out? Im sure I wont have a clue what John is doing and you can tell me all about last night while hes absorbed in the mess on my desk" "Oh, Id love to but I feel like Ive been dragged through a sewer. I probably smell like it too. Im just gonna head back to the


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room, take a shower and curl up with my bottle of water." I saw the look on Johns face that was screaming for me to cut him a break and give him some time alone with his crush. Becky on the other hand also knew the score and was a little uncomfortable being alone with John for the time being. "Oh, you can totally shower in my room," she was really laying it on. "My roommates not there, so she wont care." John saw the force behind her invitation as well as I did and figured it was more in his benefit to go along with it and try to talk to her another time. "Yeah man, come hang out with us." I was getting it with both barrels. What the hell, I was wearing clean shorts and its not like I ever wore a shirt or, God forbid, shoes. When we got to Beckys room she promptly handed me a towel and I scooted off for my much-needed shower as John went to work on the computer at Beckys desk. When I came out John had apparently fixed the problem. He was sitting on Beckys bed while she was now at her desk merrily perusing her up til now useless computer. Her roommates desk chair was cluttered with books and I looked around for a place to flop my limp body. "Oh, just park it on Eileens bed, the sheets are clean," Becky suggested. I did just that. I flopped right down and promptly sprawled out. The curious thing was that on the wall, right next to her pillow, was a picture that I recognized. I ought to have recognized it, as it was a picture of me from the sports section of the school paper. It was a very flattering picture at that. I was getting fifteen stitches above my right eye during the second period of a hockey game when someone came into the locker room and called my name. My head was prone as the three hundred pound trainer was pulling stitch number eight through my forehead and I ground my eyes over towards the voice when the flash popped. The resulting picture bore the caption "Tarzan In Hockey Pants." I was sitting on a gurney without a shirt staring lasers through a tangle of dreadlocks at the camera as an enormous woman in scrubs and surgical gloves pulled silk through my ruptured face. Whoever slept in this bed not only hung that picture but also took the time to record my stats week to week on the sheet of loose-leaf paper that was hung next to it. Sitting there freshly showered, rehydrating, veins jam-packed with acetaminophen, and sprawled in the bed of some unknown woman who obviously was fixated with me had me feeling well enough to jump right in when Becky finally asked "So, what happened last night?" I relayed my tale of woe with a much lighter heart than I expected. Becky was taken aback by the atrociously