So, my senior year ('97), my folks go out of town to a conference for almost a whole week. Being the red blooded american 18-year-old male that I was, I of course take this opportunity to throw a party. Well, a small party. Don't want it getting out of hand, right? Just maybe 15 or 20 friends, some booze, a good time had by all. I even wrangled a keg for the occasion.
Ha ha, well, word got out. By rough estimates, there were 100-150 in attendance, including people who didn't even go to the same high school. Some property was destroyed, and I'm pretty sure some of those delinquents from Wasson High were the ones that ended up stealing the tap off the Keg, meaning we had to get creative as hell to get the rest of the beer out, but I'm getting off into the weeds here.
Skipping over a number of tales of ribald and wanton festiveness, fast forward to about 2 am. The vast majority of "guests" have since left, abarring the few who will be spending the night (and not all of those planned to do so).
I, of course, being the responsible host that I was, was diligently unconscious on the basement floor (carpeted at the time, thank goodness). I've been there long enough to start dreaming, and in my dream, I am unable to move off the ground as a steamroller runs me over, circling around to do so repeatedly.
About the third or fourth time, I notice, "boy, this steamroller is uncharacteristically spongy and warm."
Slumber finally abandons me, and I realize that the impetus behind my odd dream is less than 3 feet from me, where my friend Greg (who some of you might remember as the guy in the baseball cap in my photos of Denver last August) and his girlfriend are currently "entertwined" to a degree and are literally rolling around on the carpet. As if to drive home the dream connection, they then proceed to roll over me again.
Now, some people in this situation might make their conscious presence known. But, see, at the time, I was of the opinion that Greg needed this. So I played dead. Or rather, played "still passed out." As they rolled over on me a couple more times.
And then she kicked me in the face. Accidentally, I'm sure. Throes of passion and whatnot.
Now, some people in THIS situation might decide that enough was enough, and bolt upright with some choice words to say to the inconsiderate lovebirds. I, however, decided that if I was in for the proverbial penny, I would stay in for the equally proverbial pound, and continued to feign sleep, albeit subtly shifting my angle such that my head would no longer be in the direct line of fire.
Anyway, skipping a few more minutes into the future, things finally "calmed down," and I judged the moment to be ripe for me to make a stealthy exit. See, I had grown rather uncomfortable there on the basement floor over the past 20 minutes, carpeted though it might have been, and I longed for the comfort of my own bed in my own room, up two flights of stairs.
So, when I had judged that they would not notice me quickly and quietly exiting the room, I leapt to my feet gracefully, and bounded like a ghostly gazelle for the hallway exit that led to the stairs. Or so I would have, had I not at the very moment of my first "bound" toward the door, discovered that, during my period of beer-fueled impromptu basement slumber, another one of my friends had apparently decided to play the age-old prank on me of tying my shoelaces together. Thus hobbled, I fell like a heavy oak plank, whipping my head directly into the stucco wall on the other side of the hall, re-rendering myself unconscious for an unknown, but presumably brief, amount of time.
When I regained my faculties, I reassured myself that there was no blood dripping from my head, and then regarded my fellow floor-sprawlers. Curiously enough, they were now fully clothed, wrapped in blankets, and for all appearances, snoozing away as if they had simply retired peacefully some time ago. I must admit I was a bit miffed that they did not deign it necessary to come check on me, because there was no way in Milton's Frozen Hell that they could have not noticed me braining myself during my attempted egress. Thus disgruntled, I slipped out of my shoes and went up to bed.
The following morning, as we cleaned the house and set it to rights as best we could (the rug steamer cost more than the damn keg), I definitely let the two of them have an earful of choice recommendations pertaining to courtesy and location for pitching woo, as it was not like the house had a dearth of private rooms of which they could easily have availed themselves. She, at least, had the good grace to turn red with embarrasment and apologize for kicking me.
