Now you know nothing happened, I’m just a retard.

Ironically, I was passed out and only vaguely remember the sound of glass breaking. The next morning (re: afternoon) when I woke up, I saw the window and called the front office to see if anything happened the night before…

By any chance did your “climbing through the window” story occur at the Trails of Bethabara? I am thinking it did…

Thomas blacks out and heads to class running completely on autopilot to turn in this paper. From here, the details have been provided by a compatriot of ours who probably should have helped Thomas out a bit more. Thomas finds himself in the hall, waiting for the class before his to get out. Ever the jovial fellow, he strikes up a conversation with his professor. Thomas finds out the professor went to Virginia Tech. Thomas then turns the subject to Virginia Tech football ever so smoothly by saying “Ernest Wilford is a motherfucker who will never catch a single touchdown in the NFL.” Exit professor. Thomas hands in his paper, passes out snoring in his class, sleeps through his class and well into the next. Wakes up in a Spanish class with no recollection of whether he turned in his paper or, just generally, what the fuck is going on, and walks home. Thanks to the wonders of blind grading, I believe the man earned a B on that paper.

AAB: “Dude, why sleep on this hard-ass chair when you have a perfectly good bed inside that’s all yours?”
Good Judgment/rationality: ZZZZZZZZZ
AAB: “Just head over there and give that window a few taps and see if you can bust it”
Good Judgement/rationality: zzzzzzzzz

I head over to the window, pull off my t-shirt, wrap it around my elbow and “tap” the window. Now, either I didn’t “tap” the window so much as I “slammed the ever-loving shit out of it”, or that was the shittiest window of all time, or both. Whatever, the window shatters, which I guess was the plan.

I begin to crawl through when I hear my upstairs neighbor call out: “Who is that? Are you okay?”. Having never had a conversation with this person, I respond with the emminently nonsensical “It’s just me”, which of course gives this guy nothing to work with. He calls the cops. I crawl over the window ledge and drag my stomach across the broken glass. Bleeding ensues. It is now around 3:oo a.m.

A little exposition a better writer would have given the reader earlier is that our little local apartment community had been having trouble with a violent sex offender around that time, as well as a host of nonviolent break-ins. Needless to say, Winston-Salem’s finest came in heavy, guns drawn.

After a pat-down against the wall, profuse apologies eminated from my semi-drunk, semi-asleep exhausted and bloodied corpus. The finest left without pressing charges. I think they may have felt more sorry for me than anything else.

So you can know what a truly hellish twelve hours or so it was after I left the bar. The then-future Ms. Sam (i.e. current Ms. Sam) was working night shift at the hospital that evening. Which means she works the unenviable twelve hours from 7p.m. until 7a.m. She was never what you’d call a happy camper by the time she finally got to my pad to sleep after a long days work. Well, on this particular occassion she was even less than pleased with her significant other. The apartment was a little more breezy than usual (window still broken in the winter); there was blood all over the walls where the finest had Terry-frisked yours truly, and I lay on the couch, a miserable disgusting vile heap of humanity.

In conclusion, may I please have a hat?