Your Life.

"I'm...your density"

You recognize that quote. What is that? Where is it coming from? Your head is pounding and you're in a spinning black box. Open your eyes. THE SUN! You close them again. Too bright. Head still pounding. And not like a light thump. This is a thunderous beating against your skull.

You are hungover.

Open the eyes again? No, too painful. That's an arousing sensation against your manparts - wait, it's straight-up blanket to skin - you are naked. That's odd. Where are your clothes? You grope blindly around the bed.

You hit something. Warm, soft, supple? That's a thigh, and it's not yours.

Okay, there is someone in the bed. Please let it be a woman.

Crack open the eye...

It's facing the opposite direction, but it has long hair. You see that as a good sign. But what if it's a hippie?

You pull down the covers ever so slightly, and turn its body to face you. Careful, careful not to wake. Okay, those are definitely breasts.

Thank god. That was almost boy scout camp all over again.

Well, she is definitely well-shaped. You wonder if she's a butterface. Best not to check.

BACK TO THE FUTURE! You realize that's where the quote is from. It's your room mate's favorite movie. You bet he's downstairs right now, engaged in a little "wake-and-bake", taking stock in last night's debauchery. It's not every day that YOU get chosen to be on THE REAL WORLD: TUSCON. A party was certainly in order.

It's no surprise to you that you made it on the show. Your think about your chiseled features, your toned swimmers body, and your rad Sublime tattoo. Of course you were chosen. You are what women want, and what men want to be. But no one NO ONE can know about your condition. It would ruin you. DON'T THINK ABOUT IT. DON'T THINK ABOUT IT.

You want to get out of bed. If only that light weren't there! You swing your legs off the bed and onto the floor. You decide to blindly navigate to the window and shut the blinds. You sit up. Your stomach turns and a wave of nausea hits you. The liquid rises into your throat. You suppress the urge - for now. With all your strength, you lift yourself off the mattress and use gravity like a bounce board to propel you to the window. You fiddle with blinds. You can never remember which way opens them and which way closes them. Lefty loosie, righty tighty? Trial and error. Finally, darkness. You make slits out of your eyes. Just enough to see.

Okay, this is an exposure you can handle.

You search the floor for boxers. Beer cans, McDonalds wrappers, TONS of ping pong balls. You can't find anything to wear, but you desperately want to bounce before this sorostitute wakes. Fuck it. You walk to the closet and put on the Kimono you bought for the "I think I'm turning Japanese" kegger. You creep across the hardwood floor, avoiding the creaks and cracks that could rise the sleeping slambag. You make it to the door. Success.

Down the stairs and into the common room.

"1.21 GIGAWATTS!"

Sure enough, there's Travis on the couch, eating a chick-fil-a chicken biscuit. Stoned out of his gourd. Reciting all the dialogue. Right now Doc Brown's flipping his shit.

It's now two weeks until you head out to Tuscon. But first you've got to go back home and prepare your parents for what will surely be some scandalous fuckin' television. You also need to stock up on the medicine for your...condition. Because NO ONE NO ONE must know. You have to be careful to conceal your meds and to take them when the cameras aren't spying. Luckily you've had years of experience keeping it a secret - so far only one person knows. Dr. Foster. And he can't tell. Doctor - patient confidentiality. And if he ever quits his practice - BAM! Lacrosse stick to the face!

That reminds you. You better take your meds now. But SHIT, they're back up in your room with that sorostitute. Whatever. You would rather brave the bitch than let it flare up. Okay, back up the stairs. Slowly, quietly. You make it to the door. Okay, open like a ninja. If you were opening this door any slower it wouldn't be opening at all. Finally, you make enough space to slide in.

WHAT THE HELL?!

Long hair is gone. How the hell did she get out? Whatever. She served her purpose. You walk to the dresser. Open it up. Where are your meds? I always keep them under the Maxims. You toss the magazines out, search frantically. oh shit shit shit. Where are they? I NEVER MOVE THEM. FOUR YEARS THEY'VE BEEN RIGHT HERE! You're on the floor, throwing the beer cans aside. Under the bed. NOTHING. SHIT. Everything is whirling. You're back in the black box. It feels like Vertigo. NO. NO NO CAN KNOW. NO ONE CAN KNOW ABOUT MY CONDITION.

You can barely stand up. The liquid's rising again. You grab your stomach. You notice, out of the corner of your eye...

There's a note on your bed.

You propel yourself with the mattress again. To the note. Your head pounds. The last thing you want to do is interpret these squiggles into coherent phrases BUT YOU MUST.

Todd,

Good luck in Tuscon. I know you'll be a hit.

xoxo

Me

PS - I was looking for some altoids in your drawer. Made an interesting discovery. I'm sure the guys in Pi Lambda Phi would LOVE to hear about your...condition.

Let's just say THIS is payback for last September.

You can't hold it in anymore. You puke.

It doesn't help.