Bleeding Out On The Table

I woke up in a pool of my own blood this morning. Okay, maybe not a pool, but at least a dignified puddle or a dampened semi-circle. Regardless, this morning there was blood and me and a bed. My stomach had been hurting the night before, but I wasn't too concerned, so I took a shower and went to bed and woke up to what could have been a crime scene. It was like my own little Halloween week nightmare, and I ran through all the horror movie plots that could have happened to me in the six hours since I had fallen asleep: first and foremost I checked for a horse head. Not The Godfather. Maybe Jason had come or Freddy Krueger. Most scary of all, I thought for a moment that it was the plot of Carrie... the menstruation scene or the post-pig blood scene... either one, really. And then it hit me. I checked my belly button, and bam; I found the source. I was bleeding out of my belly button. It was happening... again.

***

Two years ago, I was sitting in the student center of my college listening to all the rules and regulations of being a third year resident assistant. By the time you're a third year RA, you understand all the ins and out of what RA training week means. You talk about rules and how to hold a fire extinguisher and what weed smells like. On the heavier days, you learn about sexual assault and emergent situations and what to do if someone tries to kill themselves, which we were promised rarely ever happens. (In my three years, I had three... so that's a big lie). My favorite part was when the dean of students told us how important we are because I like validation, but at the end of the day, third year RAs just hoped that whatever room they were in had enough signal that you could get on Facebook on your phone. 

We were on day 4 of 6, so at that point the veterans had all but given up. I was particularly exhausted after watching a video of a man getting hit by a car and no one doing anything about it. I thought maybe that's why I was feeling light headed, but I put my hands down in my lap, and I felt something wet. I opened up my jacket and the bottom of my shirt and the top of my pants were covered in blood. I'm still not entirely sure how you accumulate that much blood on your clothes without knowing it, but sometimes blood happens and you're not really concerned with the details.

After zipping my jacket back up, I walked up to my boss before our next session and said, "Ben, I think I need to leave." He quickly responded, "I told you, you're not going to leave. Go sit down," and I said, "No, I really think I need to go," I opened up my jacket and stood there like a nonchalant horror film victim. Apparently, if you make it appear that you've been stabbed, you get what you want. On the way out, I ran into my friend who drove me to the hospital. I called my mom and said, 

"So, I don't want to worry you, but I think I've started bleeding out of my belly button, and it's not stopping." 

"You think you're bleeding out of your belly button?"

"Okay, I'm definitely bleeding out of my belly button. I'm going to Blount Memorial."

Considering the general blood flow coming out of my navel, in addition to the morbidity/mortality rates of Blount Memorial Hospital, my chances of living until the end of the day was about 43%. I waited in the dank waiting area attached to the emergency room filling out papers, which was extremely easy considering that I don't have health insurance. Eventually, my friend had to leave me, and I laid on the hard plastic table lined with butcher paper. I was hoping that if I laid on my back that the blood would just kind of drain itself back in. That, unfortunately, did not work. My mom busted in and held my hand, watching me essentially die on the table, and her absolute panic made me think... Is this how I'm going out? Am I going to die via uncontrollable bleeding from the belly button? It was kind of devastating and hilarious at the same time.

After nine hours at the hospital, a CAT scan, an x-ray, and at least 492 q-tips driven into my belly button, the doctors had come to a conclusion: they didn't know. By this time the bleeding had stopped because even my body's will to kill me had become exhausted. No one knew what was happening, so I took antibiotics for two days, forgot to take the rest, and then I thought it was over.

***

That is, until I woke up covered in blood this morning. I called my mom to let her know that the whole scenario was happening again, but in the course of two years, I wasn't so much concerned with dying as much as I was upset about having to wash my sheets when I get home at 11pm tonight. There was much more blood than before, and I have white carpet. I had woken up to give myself twenty-five minutes to get ready. Cleaning up a mess like this was going to take at least fifteen. I had been down the bleeding-out-of-your-belly-button-and-can't-get-it-to-stop-road before. There was no way I was going to the hospital. Quite the opposite: I took a Kleenex, folded it twice, taped it to my stomach and went to work. If waking up bloody wasn't enough of an indication that it was going to be a tough Monday, on the way to work I also hit two squirrels playing in the street. RIP Carl and Demetrius.

Most of the morning, I was lightheaded--not sure if that was about Carl and Demetrius or the lack of blood. Regardless, I was going down. After toying with the idea of seeing if I was going to actually bleed out, I decided that I should probably just go to the doctor. I still don't have insurance, I still don't know what caused me to start bleeding out, and I still am taking antibiotics that I will probably forget to take after about two days.

In short, life is a horror story, y'all, but as you get older, the scary parts change. Once you've nearly bled to death out of your stomach twice, the thrill of dying is kind of shot. Real horror begins to set in when you think of how pissed your roommates will be if you leave a stomach blood stain on the eggshell carpet or how ironic it is that you need health insurance when you've been trying to log on to healthcare.gov to sign up for health insurance for the past four days. Worrying about whether or not my purple gingham shirt is going to get bloodstained throughout the day gave me an all too real insight into what it must feel like to be a teenage girl. And that's one thing that never changes--no one ever wants to hear, "They're all going to laugh at you! They're all going to laugh at you!"

A Reevaluation of People I've Met in DC via The Hunger Games

As I am just days away from returning to The Capital, it's no surprise to anyone that I was crowned victor of the first semester of The Hunger Games: DC. In true, Katniss fashion, I did not win alone--partially because I kind of like some of the people I was around, partially because I have a distaste for blood. Yes, there were some casualties along the way, but sometimes, that's what you need to do in the face of good spirit of the game. Let's take a moment to reevaluate some of the past tributes that will not be returning for the second reaping.
If you recall some of the highlighted tributes from the first installment of The People I've Met in DC via The Hunger Games, you will remember spirited characters such as "Fish Sandwich, Fish Sandwich Boy" and "The Girl I Called Fugly Slut After Too Many Tequila Shots," both lost to the stress and turmoil of the last DC Hunger Games. I imagine that the McDonalds threw to boy out of the restaurant for loitering too long, and our chain smoking friend met her own demise as the result of her own secondhand smoke. But the games must go on, so I will evaluate the new and returning tributes based on their abilities and potential to win, based on the same scale of 1-12. May the odds be ever in our favor.

My OKCupid Match That Called Me Stupid on the Second Date
Haymitch said it best when he discussed "the careers;" sometimes it is more dangerous to be arrogant than it is to be humble. If you've never been on the OKCupid before, it's a quaint dating website that shallowly matches you with people based on questions about political beliefs, cleanliness, and the level of your sexual prowess. Eventually, you talk to someone long enough that you decide that you can't stand to be around them for more than thirty minutes, and you go on a date. Our first date was in a bar, so naturally, the majority I had to go off of was appearance. I tried to live tweet the date, but with volume being limited, I felt as if I should pay attention. The key words I got from the date were: law school, brothers, New York, country music. With that in mind, I decided on a second date. After a mile long trek around the DC monuments, a brief discussion about my move from the South, and an acute case of face molestation, the night ended with me being called stupid because I had never noticed the carousel on the National Lawn. The audacity did not earn a third date, but it could serve in the arena... at least for a time.
Training score: 6

My Cat, Batman
In a twist to this installment, one animal will be introduced into the game. I adopted him from a seemingly overjoyous family, but after a couple weeks, I have realized why they were so overjoyed: it was because they were getting rid of the cat. Batman will remind you a lot of Foxface from the 74th Hunger Games--he's fast and has a knack for really screwing things up. He's already eluded certain murder in my apartment at least four times and has a knack for hiding for days at a time. If you don't hear the cannon, you really can't assume he's died.
Training score: 11

Roommate Andrew
My personal Peeta sustained a lot of damage in the last Hunger Games, so we can only expect for him to follow the same fate as Peeta in Catching Fire. In the first Hunger Games, there was a lot of collateral damage because of Roommate Andrew, and in round two, his baking skills and agile nature with a soccer ball with serve him less faithfully than his faithful attentiveness to the show Dexter. The competitors in this arena will be much less gentle and much more skilled, but his newly displayed ability to consume a much higher volume of alcohol should benefit him. Like Catching Fire (spoiler alert!), it is assumed that myself and Roommate Andrew will still be a forced to be reckoned with. The first games made him much edgier, but then again, didn't it do that to all of us?
Training score: 8

The VP Who Always Tells Me My Clothes are Fabulous!
Okay, so maybe this is a comparison better drawn to Caesar Flickerman than to an actual tribute, but it's my games, and I do what I want. Yes, I have found him to challenge me fashionably in ways I never expected to be, but he's proven himself to be quite the sharp witted competitor. His evaluation of my daily outfits (the vest put me on the "hot" list, my risque use of Chuck Taylors put me on the "not" list), not only intimidated me, but also pushed me to think in ways I hadn't before. If he applies that kind of analysis to his competitors, he should have no problem taking out at least a couple players. However, if the arena's conditions happen to compromise the pleat in his pants, he could be gone before you can say "cornucopia."
Training score: 4

"Too Hungover To Make The Brunch Date We Had Arranged" Girl
Was still too hungover to make it to the Hunger Games. She was killed immediately by the Capital.
Training score: 1

Skinny, Skinny Nora
"Skinny Skinny Nora" who believes obese children should be informed of their obesity is obviously one of the careers in these games. She once endured the scrutiny of frat boys drawing on her cellulite with markers. Because careers always seem to last at least halfway through the book (or movie, if you're totes lazy), I expect that her beauty will push her forward. However, her inability to relate to many people on the unhealthy end of the BMI chart will surely come to hurt her--hopefully not in the same way that Clove or Glimmer went out. Sadly, she will eventually go to that big apple in the sky, which means she has a fashion internship in New York where no one can ever be skinny enough. Le sigh.
Training score: 5

The Man Who Gave Me a Cigarette in the Bar Bathroom
On a night that involved two Long Island Teas, a bottle of wine, and at least three beers, I wasn't looking my best... consider it that moment when Katniss got burned really bad by the fireballs in the woods. In a semi-inebriated stupor, I queried a man in the bathroom for a cigarette, and he gladly gave me one. He asked if I had any change in return, but alas, I only had my Burt's Bees... which I tried to give him. He politely declined. In a way, he was my Rue. Though we were only together for a short time, I will always remember that kindly black man in the bathroom, and I will forever treasure that Newport that he gave me out of the kindness of his heart. He will inevitably meet the same fate as Rue, and I can only hope I'll see him in that big bar bathroom in the sky.
Training score: 9 (just cause he was really great, you know?)

"Rides of Whales" Kelli
Inevitably, in every second installment there has to be a Finnick. A suave, alluring specimen with the ability to charm the pants off the competition and/or drink from anyone's drink in the bar who has an abandoned straw to offer. Kelli proved her strength as the likable tribute, making friends with any and every tribute she encountered. Her personality is only matched by her brute strength to ingest many McNuggets with the conviction only a previous victor can. A career in a different way than "Skinny, Skinny Nora," Kelli has the proven ability to last for days in the arena, but may find difficulty when it comes to befriending fellow tributes.
Training score: 10

An Analysis of People I've Met in DC via The Hunger Games

In a city full of dangers and obstacles, it's apparent to me that only the strong survive. As I stuck my leg in the metro today to stop the doors from closing, the metro began to pull away... with my leg. This place is not for the faint of heart, unless you happen to be faint of heart on the metro, in which case you'll fit in perfectly. Everyone seems to sleep on the metro, and it's not a big deal. All you need to do is claim a seat, then just doze off. No one really messes with one another, but if you don't wake up, I have a theory that someone transports your body over to the green line, then you disappear into Anacostia never to be seen again. It's kind of like the canon that gets fired when someone dies in The Hunger Games... actually, speaking of The Hunger Games (available on DVD and BluRay August 18th), let me do a little rundown of my fellow DC-... um... people. I will evaluate their skills with a Hunger Games training score from 1 to 12.

Roommate Andrew
He bakes and seems to be handy with a soccer ball. He keeps his car exceptionally clean and was the first person I met going into the games... I mean, moving to DC. Well, other than Yoli and Peter, but we'll get to that later. For comparison sake, he's the counterpart from my district. When I get sad, sometimes we go to Target, and he decidedly chose not to eat Chick-Fil-A because we discussed the homophobic stigma that comes along with it. In terms of his fighting skill, I'm not sure how he would fare, but I have confidence that as a team, we can at least make it to the final 8. I did, however, threaten to cut his back open with a pizza cutter, and he didn't flinch.
Training score: 9

The Woman Who Asked Me to Put Money in Her Shoe
She wasn't too well kept, but honestly, after traversing the city for a little bit, I don't think that's a requirement that you have to meet. I walked upon her, laying/sitting on a small collection of stairs. She looked at me and said, Hey baby. I mean, she had me from hello. She unlaced her shoe, took if off, and held it toward me. Put mama some money in her shoe. Sadly, there was no spare money for mama to have, and she was not happy when I explained that to her. I imagine that if this had happened in a dark alley, the outcome would have ended differently. She was fierce, and obviously a DC career.
Training score: 10

Fish Sandwich, Fish Sandwich Boy
One night, in a desperate attempt to not go back to our furnitureless apartment, roommate Andrew and I decided to go to the Oriental Supermarket in search of rice noodles, followed by a brief stop at the local McDonalds. I noticed a sign that said "No Loitering. Consumption Time 30 Minutes." This McDonald's don't mess. Yet in bold disregard for the obvious time restraint this McDonald's seemed to be facing, one little boy stood proudly with the largest hand of coupons I've ever seen. Without looking at the cashier, he would repeat everything on the coupon, Fish sandwich for a dollar. Fish sandwich for a dollar. Fish sandwich for a dollar. McFlurry for 99 cents. The list continued on. His inability to make eye contact was precious, but that charm can only last for so long. He was the little Middle Eastern Rue, but even she wasn't quite good enough.
Training score: 6

The "I'd Let Sebastian Bach Spit On Me" Woman
If anything can remind you that the world is much smaller than you would have ever believed, it's got to be the fact that the same trashy people go to Kenny Chensey concerts all across the land. And on a smoke break out to the railings of what may have been the biggest arena I've ever been to, I met her. Who you ask? Oh, only a woman that told me that should we risk getting thrown out of the concert if she could grab Kenny Chesney's "jewels." She then went on to tell me that she had acquired a drumstick from a Nickelback concert, as well as a sweat/spit towel from Sebastian Bach (known famously for his brief role on Celebrity Fit Club and Gilmore Girls, and was apparently in a band as well). She followed by saying that she would let Sebastian Bach put any bodily fluids he wanted on her. Then I walked away. She wouldn't make it far, but if Sebastian Bach were brutally bludgeoned close enough to be sprayed by his blood, she would at least go out happy.
Training score: 5

Black Man Selling Knock Off Tee Shirts
He called me fat and had poorly made tee shirts. He would die first when my fat ass would send a hatchet flying into his back.
Training score: 1

Walmart Enthusiast at Target
Another easily targeted (no pun intended) tribute would be the woman who so excitedly asked my roommate and I if we have ever been to Walmart. As we finished purchasing our cleaning supplies, she explained how it was bigger and that everything there was cheaper. If we had the time, we should check it out. As we hurried out the door, we went to his car. As we put the final items in the car, she appeared again, Oh! Long time no see, boys! How are you?! She was so excited to be there. If someone made it to her before I made it to "Black Man Selling Knock Off Tee Shirts," she would arguably be the weakest character.
Training score: 2

The Girl I Called Fugly Slut After Too Many Tequila Shots
Sometimes people are nice, and sometimes they aren't... kind of like Glimmer from District 2. That's why she got killed by tracker jackers so early into the game. And for all intensive purposes, I dropped a nest of tracker jackers on someone after just one night here. My friend's roommates decided to take me out, and after a girl walked up and loudly announced to me that she was a Marine then called me a "civilian" in the most demeaning tone ever, I was perturbed to say the least. It wasn't until she came back with one of the roommates and deemed me "unattractive" that it happened... Are you serious right now? You are a fugly slut. And that's why we don't ever let Justin drink tequila in the company of strangers. I woke up on the futon the next morning, and she appeared wearing a tee shirt and panties from one of the roommate's rooms, then stepped outside to smoke a Marlboro Red at nine in the morning. I went to the window and took her picture.
Training score: 7 (though she was skanky, it would honestly take a lot to kill someone who hasn't already killed themselves with 9:00am Marlboro Reds)

Landlord Peter
I haven't really been able to understand anything that he's said since I've met him, but I do know that he was super enthusiastic about the fig tree that is growing outside next to our patio and that his cousin came to fix our freon. I'm going to take a far reaching guess and say that Peter is his American name. Also, he has the ability to disappear faster than anyone I've ever seen before... like Foxface.
Training Score: 5

Jesus and I Aren't Happy With You, Mel Gibson

As an avid young Christian attending the Mount Olive Baptist Church youth group, I was totally stoked to go see The Passion of the Christ. Sure, it was rated R and publicized as too graphic for many adults, but I was ready to lift God's name on high. If the time called for it, I was even prepped to sing his praises, right there in the movie theater. As for all the reports of people dying of heart attacks in the middle of the movie, I was just Evangelical enough to believe that it was because God willed it. How lucky might we be to be taken during the most biblical cinematic treasure of our time? In retrospect, I was kind of bat shit crazy. Love me some Jesus. Down with the G-O-D, but honestly, I was drinking the Koolaid and picking out rosaries whilst taking a break from witnessing to all the goth kids at school. God only knows where Charlotte Howard would be without me today. You're welcome, Charlotte.

I was totally pumped about being a youth minister one day. I had found my calling at fourteen years old. It was going to be awesome, blessed, and all the other words that really enthusiastic Baptists use to describe their faith. That all changed the day that I finally saw The Passion of the Christ. We lined into the theater, waiting to be moved and shaken. However, I went through three stages during the movie: totally pumped, hysterical, and catatonic. I prayed immediately after the movie, then went home and sat by myself for a really long time. I don't think I ate that night, and it was one of probably three times in my life that I didn't talk to anyone for more than an hour. I was in cinematic shock, and it was not cool.
If I remember correctly, I never went back to Mount Olive, but the trauma lasted for a while. Once I had recuperated from the shock of seeing Jim Caviezel/Jesus Christ hang on the cross for a solid thirty minutes, the terrors would come in bursts. Yes, I would use the word "terror" because my reaction to allusions to the movie were absolutely terror-filled. One particular moment I remember was watching television with my dad. The DVD preview came on commercial, and I jumped up from the couch and ran outside. I'd sit out there until someone found me, crying. The worst of the commercial stints was when I was singing to myself in the dresser mirror in my room (because that's what lonely middle schoolers do). All of a sudden, I saw the commercial in the mirror. Jesus, Mary, Satan... the whole gang was there. All I could do was stand there, frozen. I jumped up on my bed afterward, waiting for one of the characters to crawl out from underneath.
The worst case of my Passion of the Christ induced PTSD came about two years after the fact. I had healed. I was whole again; I was bright and shiny Justin. Surely, I could download a song from the soundtrack (which is surprisingly good); it was only a song. I got on my Limewire and downloaded "Born Again" by Brad Paisley and Sara Evans, playing the roles of Jesus and Mary, respectively. I started listening to the song, and then halfway through, the song started making a loud, repetitive, mechanical noise. EHHHH EHHHH EHHHH! Over and over. I pulled my headphones off, threw them across the living room, ran outside screaming, all whilst my parents were watching a movie. To make my parents understand, I made them listen to the song... after I went outside, got in my dad's truck, turned on the radio as loud as it could go, and covered my ears of course. Eight years after the fact, I still refuse to watch the movie and get chills just thinking about it.

Look at what you've done, Mel Gibson. Look at what you've done to me. No, it wasn't a heart attack, but it was pretty freaking intense. I have all but fully recovered from my Jesus PTSD, but it has been a long road. It helps to think of the Bible in the way that I had read it previously; I always liked Biblical interpretations like Evan Almighty and Saved! more than I did the gory, descriptive ones. Also, I made a major breakthrough the day that I realized the final Satan scene could possibly have been used for Faith Hill's video for "Breathe."
It all gets better one day at a time, but I would like to offer some advice. Don't ever go and see the movie. Don't ever let your children go see the movie, and for the love of God (no pun intended), do not buy the DVD for your home collection. That's like buying Deliverance or any movie starring Nicholas Cage so that you can watch it again. Some movies are one watch wonders, and they should be left that way. On the very off chance that any movie director, writer, or producer ever reads this... just leave the Jesus story-telling to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and/or John. Actually, Charlton Heston freaked me out in The Ten Commandments, so leave the entire Bible alone. It gets revised by someone every four days anyways; let's just leave this one to literature. And to everyone, maybe we should quit trying to encompass Christ's love in new media. The videos, the music, the movies... it's tired. The horse is dead and will not rise again in three days. Maybe if we tried to encompass Christ's love through our actions instead of via an economic market, we'd be getting to the point a little faster. Of course, this is coming from the ex-Evangelical. I'm just some humdrum Christian that prays every once in a while and tries to be nice to people.

Private School Student at a State School Party

In my increasingly old age, sometimes I don't find myself as fun as I used to be. And by fun, I mean reckless and willing to consume immense amounts of alcohol. So, I guess by fun, I kind of mean stupid.

Correction: In my increasingly old age, sometimes I don't find myself as stupid as I used to be.

Tonight, I went to a wedding, had a couple glasses of wine, then I came home. However, every once in a while, a little friend sneaks up on me. I like to call that friend, tequila. Most of the time, that tequila comes in the form of margaritas. On Cinco de Mayo, or the English translation: Day of Thanks for Tequila, I decided that I needed give my dues to Montezuma and all of the other Mexican gods. Considering that the apocalypse is coming up in just six months (mark your calendars!), it is important that we make what we have left of 2012 the best year that we can.

Even with my dedication to the drink that evening, there's always a special piece of me that remains in control. I don't like being that girl at the party; no one enjoys the one girl that takes shots of Malibu because "it's, like, so tasty" and then demands her keys to go home at the end of the night. Just drink your Mike's Hard and stay where you are. But, I digress. As I was finishing up my second margarita at El Jimador, or "The Jimmy" as Maryville College students have come to know it, I was contemplating how I wanted to ring out the end of the Mexican New Year.

Upon unconscious advising from the tequila and very little convincing from my friends, it only seemed logical to visit a small subset of apartments that contained mostly UT students. As most Tennessee coeds know, UT is a "dry campus." At one point in the Old Testament, I'm pretty sure there was something said about not mixing your fibers. Think of that when you put on your polycotton blend tee shirt tomorrow. Sometimes, rules just end up getting broken. At first the party was just a small group of college friends, but eventually, someone decided that the night was not interesting enough. We relocated to the adjacent apartment. We needed new friends.

Upon inviting ourselves into what was, by no surprise, a toga party, I immediately felt out of place; one reason was because I didn't know any of these people, but the main reason was because I know as an experienced soiree planner myself, I would never mix cultures by having a toga party on Cinco de Mayo. Why not just dress up as witches on Christmas? It makes no sense. That could have been why I instantly felt so abrasive to everyone at the gathering, but I wouldn't let it stop me. Cinco de Mayo is, after all, the holiday of my people. I would not let some party planning faux pas stand in the way of that.

I scanned the room looking for someone other than my own to talk to. My friends already know that when I "scan a room," that it's never with the same intention as other guys. To reference the new Rihanna song ft. Chris Brown, I am not looking for the "cake, cake, cake, cake, cake, cake." That's not my M.O. I don't like predatory actions, and that's a big reason that I usually do not attend these kind of events with other gentlemen. As I searched the room, I sifted through a sea of Bacardi Breezers and girls holding other assorted wine coolers. I wanted a different kind of conversation that didn't involve a slang term for the word vagina or a recap of this week's episode of Gossip Girl. I saw her, sitting there, over on the couch. Like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wear's Prada, I said something similar to "Go ahead. Take a chance. Sit with the smart, weird girl." Soon, I would find out that this girl had a voice similar to all of the other sorority girls in the room. However, she had me at "English major."

In a weird turn of events, she said that her favorite area of literature was Early American lit, specifically the sermons. This also happens to be the area of literature that most English majors detest... most of them, except for me. In the midst of this state school event, I had found the bright light sitting in the corner of the room. I immediately came alive with knowledge announcing at an extremely inappropriate volume, "I LOVE SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF AN ANGRY GOD!!" I was embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as her response. She looked at me and announce, "OMG. I LOVE WINTHROP!"

I was done. I will explain why in a bulleted list.

• She pronounced Winthrop's name as WHEN-THRAHP. It's WHEN-THRUP.
• She casually used the letters OMG in conversation, like that's an okay thing.
• John Winthrop did not write Sinners in the Hands of An Angry God. Jonathan Edwards did. Any self-respecting English major knows that.

I couldn't control my face, a recurring problem in my life. I pursed my lips together in absolute distain. This is what I got for taking a chance. She began talking about something else, but my ears were ringing with private school pretension. How could she not know? How could I, a consistently good judge of people and intelligence, have made such a fatal error? I shook my head quickly to bring myself to and interrupted her mid-sentence. "Brittany, it's been so good talking to you, but I have to go find my friends." I even did the non-invasive knee touch to let her know that I was sympathetic. As I began to walk away, she announced, "Um, it's Brandi." I quickly turned around and retorted with a closed-eye-smile, "Whatever."

After rethinking the night, over and over, I guess most of all I feel ashamed. I just expected too much (a common retort that I hear at the end of most of my relationships). I guess I only expected out of her what I would have expected out of myself... a correct answer. I'm sorry, Jonathan Edwards. I'm so sorry for the people of the world who claim to know you but live in some kind of sham covered up by the subpar writings of one, John Winthrop. I'm sorry other partygoers for being the elitist English major that my private school education has bred me to be. And most of all, I'm sorry Brittany for coming off so abrasively at what should have been the best Cinco de Mayo toga party of your undergraduate career.

Brandi. Damn it. Did it again.