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6-17-01 - 1:58 a.m. I have to add three hours to the entry time nowadays, seeing as how I'm no longer in California, or even on the west coast. It's strange to think that I'm something like 3,000 miles away from what, for my entire life, I've called home. Some home. Nothing ever made me happy there, and I don't remember the word "broken" ever fitting in to the adage of "Home is where the heart is." For whatever reason, I can't get Don Henley's "New York Minute" out of my head...beautiful song, but not quite as powerful after mentally humming it for nearly six hours. Cambridge is a nice little town/city/thing, and it's incredibly beautiful. The architecture isn't Spanish- or Mexican-inspired, and there seems to be a great lack of Stucco and tile roofing. My apartment is a tiny, two-room job that I share with my incredibly beautiful (bitch) roommate Lexi. As soon as I forgive her for making me look like a sheet of fly paper compared to her, I'll admit to myself that she's probably the kindest being on the face of the earth. Remember my mentioning in my precious entry how I would be co-starring in my school's play? Yah, well, I broke my shin on the first night. So that sucked. A lot. Lexi has been such a sweetheart about my gimpism, making trips to the grocery store, helping me do my laundry. She even bought me a new spatula. Casts itch like craaaaaaazy. So, being the genius I am, I grabbed a little plastic spatula one day and decided to make it my own personal under-the-cast itch reliever. It worked perfectly until the head broke off. I can't wait to see my doctor's expression when I get this thing sawed off. "Uh...Miss? Are you aware that you have part of a spatula stuck to your skin?" "Yes, sir. Yes, I am aware of that." And I'm sure it'll leave a hideous, spatula-shaped mark on my leg for at least as long as it'll have been there. I can hear the whispers now. "Dude, didja see that chick with the spatula indentation on her shin?" "Yah, man, that's real trippy." Geeze...my life is cruel. Anyway... Yah, so I decided to be brave today and ditch the crutches...and promptly fell over on my ass. I had to get New Friend Noah to give me a hand to help me up. He told me I have nice leg. No, that's not a typo. He said, "Laura, you know what? You have nice leg." See, he can't tell what my left one looks like because it's got a bright green cast on it, so for all he knows it could be splotchy and have some kind of strange kitchen utensil-shaped bruise in the middle of it. That would suck. New Friend Simon, who lives with New Friend Noah across the hall from Lexi and me, bought me one of those little boot things so I could attempt to walk. It was somewhat helpful, but it doesn't change the fact that one of the largest bones in my body is broken. It really doesn't hurt that much anymore-without Vicodin, that is-but it feels rather weak. Maybe that's 'cuz it's like...broken or something. Tonight I and my boot went to our first official "college party" and took up a good deal of couch space. I don't know what it is about some of these guys I meet, but they all somehow must sense that I'm up for an alcohol-related challenege. SIlly children, don't they know better than to challenge an alcoholic to a drinking contest? I don't even know what his name was-the name "Hector" stands out in my mind-but he downed three shots of vodka and a beer before he was gone. Please. Child's play. So another guy came in and did what "Hector" did and dared me to double that. So, I did. He thought he was badass when he busted out a bottle of Cuervo. I thought he was foolish. Still do, actually. After three shots of Cuervo, he too was gone. Now, at this point, I'll admit to getting fairly tipsy, but I'm sure I still could've passed a sobriety test. Finally, someone else decided to challenge me. He drank everything I had had so far and added to it a mixture of Goldschlager and Jack Daniel's. Four shots of his magic mixture and he too was gone. This was at about nine o'clock, and New Friend Noah demanded that I'd had "way too much for someone [my] size" and actually picked me up, boot and all, and put me in the backseat and plopped me in my bed at home. Lexi came rushing in expecting, I guess, for me to be either passed out or raving drunk, but I was just sitting there wondering what had happened. See, at this stage in my alcoholism, it takes drinks a looooooong time to hit me. Everything I'd had finally caught up with me at around 10:30, and I think I must have passed out, because I only remember suddenly waking up and wanting to add a diary entry. No idea why that impulse would hit me. It just did. And now I have. God damn it's late. And I'm really drunk. Viva la vie college. G'nite.
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