By staff writer J.M. Lucci
November 14, 2007
From the Letters of the Fresher Prince:
Men should never attempt to pee whilst sitting cross-legged.
As you are probably aware, some of the staffers here at PIC have decided to divulge the drudgery and debauchery of their daily lives by chronicling the events of one whole day. It was deemed (with an iron fist wrapped in velvet) that the 9th of November be that day. I remember sitting at my computer, reading the email logs and wondering to myself, “Something doesn’t feel quite right.” At the time, I ignored the thought.
I was to travel to Pittsburgh that afternoon, directly after my classes were over, to visit my relatives and mother, who had flown to Steel City earlier in the week with the same intent of family bonding. I was not amped about this expedition from the start; I had already planned on staring at my luscious, naturally curled, dirty blonde hair in the mirror for most of the day—maybe even twirling the curls with my index finger for fun. Pittsburgh is dreary, but my hair is dreamy.
But enough about my beautiful hair, let’s begin at midnight, shall we?
0000 Hours
“I call 911 again and find out the operator has referred me to the wrong county troopers.”
I’m awake. The TV is on, and so is my laptop—their dim blue hues radiate across my otherwise darkened, 14×10 prison cell. I’m putting the finishing touches on a thesis paper due at 11AM. It’s a solid piece, but my neurotic brain continues to tweak and tweak and tweak. I switch the channel to Cartoon Network because Comedy Central is all reruns (also, one of my guilty pleasures is watching anime…don’t judge me).
0112 Hours
I look at my laptop’s clock and sigh. The paper is finished, but not to my satisfaction. Whatever. Sleep overwhelming….
0712 Hours
I’m awake. I note the convenience of my internal clock and head out to breakfast. They have sausage patties! Oh happy day!
0735 Hours
My belly full, I head back to my room.
0736 Hours
I’m in my room (my dorm is literally fifty feet away from the dining hall). Since my class isn’t until 11AM and my paper is done, I lay down on my bed in that classic “hands behind my head, feet crossed at the ankles” lounging position.
1135 Hours
I wake up and glance at my phone. Holy crap, I’m late! I gotta get to the abortion clinic! I mean, I gotta print out my paper and get it to the professor’s desk before she returns from the class I’m missing!
1142 Hours
Hurry up, hurry up and load, I gotta print this paper out before she returns. C’mon, c’mon, you piece of junk lab computer! FUCKING LOAD FASTER YOU PIECE OF SHIT! Whoa…I shouldn’t have drunk that coffee on the way over. I don’t even like coffee.
1154 Hours
I enter my professor’s office, which is smaller than my prison cell and somehow houses two senior professors. I shuffle through the shelves and filing cabinets, looking for a stapler. Finally, I turn around to my professor’s officemate.
Me: Can I borrow your stapler?
Him: No.
Me: Fine.
Him: Wait, if it’ll make you leave, here. And look, it even has staples.
Me: Fantastic, thanks a bunch. (click)
Him: That’ll be a quarter.
Me: Too bad I’m as broke as a joke. Hey, this paper in my hand, it’s been on her desk since 11, you read me?
Him: I don’t even know who you are.
Me: Perfect.
1202 Hours
It’s time to leave for Pittsburgh now that my affairs are in order. First, however, my phone is ringing.
Me: Hey.
Her: Hey hold on a sec, I’m in the store.
Me: Wait, what? You were the one who called me.
Her: Okay, there. So what’s going on?
Me: Uh, just calling to let you know I’m gonna leave in about 50 minutes or so.
Her: 50? What kind of estimate is that?
Me: A good one.
Her: Okay…hey, we’re at the store—
Me: You told me already.
Her: —and we’re having Pierogi for dinner.
Me: Awesome. No onions, right?
Her: No butter?
Me: No, no onions.
Her: But you still want butter?
Me: You need a hearing aid.
1230 Hours
My best-est friend since the 2nd grade calls. I haven’t heard from him since we partied at his sister’s wedding last month. Needless to say, we had a lot to talk about.
Me: I hate “Livin’ on a Prayer.”
Him: The Bon Jovi song?
Me: Yeah, it fucking sucks. I hate it so much. And my favorite bar’s jukebox has it, and fucking dicks who only know the fucking refrain keep fucking playing it. Over and over and—
Him: Is there a point to this?
Me: Yeah, slow your roll, homie. Look, I hate the song, but it won’t go away. Therefore, I want it to become an evil song, so nobody will want to play it.
Him: Evil?
Me: Nobody likes rape, right?
Him: Yeah, sure.
Me: Okay, so what if we turned it into a “rape” song? Sorta like the Nazi national anthem—it’s out there, sure, but every time it gets played, people get mad and demand it shut off, because it reminds them of Nazis, except in this case, it’ll make them think of rape. I don’t know how yet, but somehow, I’ll find a way to make it evil.
Him: You have too much time on your hands.
Me: I just really, really hate that song.
1305 Hours
Woohoo! I’m on my way to Pittsburgh. Best part of the trip, I never have to turn. Seriously, I’m on the same road for two hours. Total milk run.
1345 Hours
CRASH!
….
….
….UGH, it’s like a flash-bang went off in the car….
Wha….huh….are my teeth okay? Yes, thank G…oh Lord, his gas tank’s ripped wide open. I gotta get him clear!
1347 Hours
My adrenaline has made my vision crystal-clear. Time has slowed to a molasses crawl. I reek of nitrous gases from the airbags, my lip is busted, and I have bruises on my knuckles and the back of my hands.
The other driver is completely okay, and so is his dog. I stare at the wreckage that used to be our vehicles. Gasoline bleeds from his undercarriage onto the gravel field, while his truck’s bed is obliterated.
My beautiful red car, Anastasia (I can name my car if I want to), has pipes and wires jutting out from under the smashed hood. My fake hood scoop is shattered across the side of the road. I think I have glass in my hair. The other driver’s taillight reflects sunlight from 50 feet down the road.
I call 911 and report the accident. The operator assures me a trooper will be there shortly. I hope so, because it’s 34 degrees and the wind is making it feel like 25.
1417 Hours
Me: You think they got lost?
Other Driver: Maybe.
1418 Hours
Me: You fucked up that road sign pretty good.
Other Driver: Trucks tend to do that.
1419 Hours
Other Driver: The one time you need the cops, they’re not around. Typical.
Me (aside): It’s because I’m black.
Other Driver: Huh?
Me: Nothing.
1424 Hours
I call 911 again and find out the operator has referred me to the wrong county troopers because he misunderstood my directions. Awesome. Somewhere out there, there’s a state trooper scratching his head looking for an accident that’s actually 20 miles away. The operator therefore dispatches the nearest trooper in the correct county.
Other Driver: The wrong county?
Me: Swear to God.
Other Driver: Figures.
1430 Hours
The cop arrives and we do the whole song and dance. My car is towed away. I die a little inside.
1510 Hours
I’m sitting in a McDonald’s a few miles down the road, calling people for a ride back to campus. I assure my mother that I’m not dead, and I open my laptop and begin writing a draft of this article. Hell, there’s nothing else to do.
1546 Hours
Funny how the only times people call you are when they think you’re dying or divorcing. I put call-waiting to good use.
1600 Hours
My friend picks me up and we head back to campus. He’s a bum and hasn’t eaten all day, and he demands we eat. Since he’s driving, I have little say in the matter. We joke about the irony of him crashing his car on the way back. His laughter seems nervous and forced.
1645 Hours
My buddy tells the waitress that I was in a car accident. I declare myself a “trauma victim” in hopes that Generosity picks up the check. No such luck. I get a beer and contemplate whether or not the bruise on my left hand is shaped like Jesus. Survey says, “No.”
1803 Hours
The night is young, and my buddy has Halo 3. I turn it on Legendary (I gotz teh skillz) and rock out. I yell for him to get bitches down to his pad, but he retorts they are all out of town. I therefore demand he locates some hoes. He goes, “No hoes, bro.” This campus obviously sucks.
1805 Hours
Fuck this bullshit. Halo 3 sucks. One more try on this level and then I’m done.
1924 Hours
Alright, now I’m seriously-really done with Halo. Time for Guitar Hero.
I left my buddy’s pad around 2100 hours and took a shower, washing away the airbag stench and pulling stray glass shards from my hair. Usually, this is when people go to a bar and get drunk and have anonymous sexual encounters, capitalizing on their recent accident to better their chances at bedding local whores.
Unfortunately, I jacked up on ibuprofen after the accident—in addition to my busted lip, I tore a gash on the inside of my lip, which hurt like hell (it’s better now), so I didn’t feel like tempting Fate again. I sat in my room sober for the next few hours reading The Case of Dexter Ward and daydreaming about tomorrow. Just before I went to sleep around midnight, I got a call on my cell phone. It was my buddy who had picked me up from the crash site.
Him: Hey, wanna hear a funny story?
Me: Sure.
Him: I just hit a deer with my car.
Me: Cool. Where?
Him: That one back-road. I was on my way back from Sheetz.
Me: Look, if you’re asking me to pick you up, I’d love to and all, but, well…
Him: Ha! Good one.
Me: I try.
I’m suspicious the stars and the planets were aligned in all the wrong ways that day. What are the chances I’d get into a car wreck on the exact same day as a PIC expose of select writers’ lives? This day is certainly atypical from my daily routine, but far more interesting, I suppose. If you want to see how other PIC writers live their lives, check out their stories at www.pointsincase.com/get-to-know-pic.htm.
P.S. My beautiful Anastasia, DOA.
