Oh it’s good to be back in the homeland. Last night, Midge, Amy, Rachel and I went over to the guys’ to engage in a traditional drunk fest. Party started getting pretty rowdy. Everybody got bombed and started smearing chocolate on each other by about 11 p.m. The beer drinkers gave in to shots, and things got messy. Molestation ensued between the hours of 3 and 5 a.m. Dane became very angry and began yelling like a belligerent silverback gorilla, attacking us at random and screaming like an asshole. It was a good time.
As usual, we awoke drunker than skanks at the a.m. and decided to hit up Village Inn. We carpooled in the minivan, and arrived in the parking lot with much anticipation. As I was getting out of the back seat, I suddenly realized, to my shock and confusion, that I was in a LARGE amount of pain. Wide-eyed, I look down to see my left hand smashed and locked in the passenger door that Dane had closed.
I didn’t scream, but instead instantly started crying like a little baby. Dane looks at me with puzzlement, and then glances down to my hand crushed between the door and the van. I’m in excruciating pain. Dane scrabbles to open the door. It’s locked. He reaches in and unlocks it. It won’t open. My fingers, which are kind of in a fist, are just smashed and stuck. I’m bawling. James dives into the van and weasels his way into the passenger seat and forces the door open. I am paralyzed.
I basically can’t feel my hand. It won’t move, two of my fingers are crumpled looking, and are of a purple hue. My hand was smashed in the door for a good 25 seconds at least. People are concerned. I whimper my way into the restaurant, still crying like a pussy. The manager greets me, and begins to welcome us in and ask us how many of us there are, and then feels uncomfortable that I am emotional. James informs him that I just got my hand slammed and locked in a van door. The manager gets me a bag of ice. I request Vicadin, but he has none. Haha.
It doesn’t feel good. End.
I am currently sitting at my kitchen counter, “studying for finals.” Of course by studying I mean I’m glancing at my book momentarily and then texting fifteen people, glancing back at my book, highlighting something at random, looking up pictures of various dogs on Google, checking Facebook for eight minutes, and then glaring at my notebook for another couple of seconds repeatedly. I will get nothing done. I’m going to stop trying probably.
Mom is making apricot chicken, and my dad is whipping up a new french onion soup recipe. Tonight I will feast. I want to party, but instead I will probably stuff myself like a carnival toy, not study, and play unnecessarily competitive games of Scattergories and Scrabble with my parents. Sounds like a plan.
ANYhoot, that’s all for now. I’m going to go pee my pants.
“Who’s hand is this?”