I need to get something off my chest.

We’ve all been embarrassed one way or another during a night out. Whether you got rejected by a girl (nods head yes), got turned down from a bar because you’re not 21 (nods head yes) or maybe you just had yourself a good cry (shivers, and nods head yes), it’s happened to us all; some worse than others.

Mine was worse than others, and hopefully by telling this tale, I can achieve a cathartic release that a lot of writers say they have when they relive emotional moments. Or maybe not.

It was freshman year, second semester, before Syracuse made the Final Four, and after we had to say goodbye to Ryan Nassib. We needed a beacon of hope in these dreary days of Syracuse winter; I wasn’t it. I was playing video games with some friends of mine in the open triple aka the “no privacy dojo.” We weren’t sure if we were going out at that point, but you bet we would pregame regardless. For some reason, I thought it was a good idea to get myself a bottle of Captain Morgan. In the words of Drake, you know how that should go.

Thanks to a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper (saving calories) I did not taste a lot of the Captain Morgan while I was ingesting it. After a few games of FIFA, around three quarters of the bottle was gone, and so was I.

The night had seemed to wind down, no one was going out, but the tiger inside of me would refuse to purr. I was drunk, and it was time to go out. I was hell-bent on getting out of the cage that was an actually very spacious open triple. There was only one place that would save me from this pit of despair: I had to go to DJ’s.

It wouldn’t be appropriate to say I casually wanted to go to DJ’s, I proclaimed to do it and thus it would be so. And henceforth, a wristband was fashioned out of paper, tape and a highlighter. It was time to go.

(Pausing for a second here. It was at this point when my roommates should have seen the red flag. I was craving DJ’s on the Hill like it was a glass of water in the Sahara, and they encouraged it. Is it their fault that I was too drunk? Absolutely not, this night is still 110 percent my fault. But hey, next time, maybe don’t make the wristband?)

I walked to DJ’s, it was my journey and my journey alone; a sad, acne-riddled Frodo just trying to finish a quest in which he was chosen. I arrived, got in with no problem and headed toward the bar. It gets pretty blurry from here.

I remember drinking a red bull/vodka, talking to a few people and then all of a sudden I was standing by myself in the bar, and someone grabbed my hand. I was escorted out of the bar and left to my own devices — which wasn’t fun.

A huge wave of shame hit me. I thought I had been discourteous or impolite, but I think I was just too drunk. Also my wristband fell off.

I walked home incredibly upset and incredibly drunk, so I was basically every SU fan a few weeks later. I got home and it got messy. It’s just flashbulb memories for a while:

I stumble into the shower, and all of a sudden my jeans feel warmer than normal. Oh wait, yup, that’s definitely pee.

I get to the toilet and stick my head in it like it’s the fountain of youth. The following morning I was told that during this period I responded with “sosa” to the question “What do women love?” These were lyrics to a popular Chief Keef song, which apparently is the college version of checking the vital signs.

I got to my bed and cried– HARD. I just remember sitting in my bed, head in somebody’s lap and calling for my mom. I love you mom.

The following morning, I woke up and felt as if I had been sitting in my own urine. It felt that way because that’s exactly what happened. I destroyed the evidence, went back to bed and continued living the rest of my life, thanking everyone who had been involved in that eventful, horrible, no good situation.

This was just one of those freshman year nights where two roads diverged in a wood, and I chose to piss the bed.

Published on October 6, 2015 at 9:35 pm