HELP ME DOCTOR I LOOK LIKE RHIANNA

It all starts when the Bacardi takes control of your brain and gives orders like: “run really fast so you get to your destinations faster, regardless of what kind of surface you’re running on.”

You got it, brain.

When I tried to dodge some pedestrians through cunning footwork, I hit the ice with my face.

So there I am in all my glory holding a mass of rapidly congealing blood in the palm of my hand, thinking that I broke my face. That’s it, I’ll have to get a new face, because mine is broken.

Can there be a more appropriate time to super-saturate your blood with rum? Answer: no. In times of pain, embarrassment, and confusion, it is best to continue drinking until you are clinically unable to walk and need assistance.



My friends hailed a cab and escorted me to the emergency room. I, of course, had no idea that this was happening. From then on, everything I did and said was without justification.

I don’t know if I puked in the E.R, or if I even puked at all. Maybe waking up with a distinct taste of vomit and hamburgers in your mouth is part of the whole facial injury aftermath. There was even a point where I was looking at the side of my curled up finger through my camera phone, asking rhetorically: “Why is there a butt on my phone?” This occurrence of “phone butts” was something I do not recall, nor will I attempt to explain.

Thank you Alex, Leandra, Koren, Aurelie, Sylvia, Kevin? and everybody else that helped me to the giant building where they heal people. (I really, really, really, really don’t remember anything…)

We sat through infomercials, and the only thing I remember is ‘The Dogfather’ guy talking about how your dog is a piece of shit and you can convert him from the barking, running, fuck-anything, defecate-anywhere animal that his genetic code intends him to be into a boring dog that doesn’t do any tricks.

The Dogfather

Anyways, with my roommate Alex hanging onto the wee hours of the morning, I decided my time was up and that I wasn’t going to wait until the morning doctors punched in to fix me up. See, unless you’re shot or impaled by a log they really don’t care. They have other things to do. So I went home and slept it off.

Next year, I’m not drinking. Alcohol draws a fine line between fun times and a slightly attractive nurse in ‘triage’ who makes double sure that you’re not lying about your injuries. I told her I fell on the ice and she didn’t believe me.

Do you think Rihanna told the cops the old ‘I fell on the ice’ excuse? Sure.