Girl finds dignity on sole of shoe
Fish Rap Live! Volume 18 Issue 1 A quiet party on High Street turned almost deadly last weekend when UCSC student Rachel Blowhard nearly lost what she holds dearest: her dignity. "I went to the bathroom with some gross, skeezy guy my roommate used to bang, and when I came back out, my dignity was gone!" Blowhard says. "I just…I panicked." Concerned friends and onlookers helped Blowhard search for her dignity. People looked under the chairs where Blowhard took crotch shots off of co-eds, in the stray purses Blowhard was seen rifling through earlier in the night, and even in the kitchen sink drain where Blowhard allegedly spewed. Her dignity was nowhere to be found. "I set out a trail of bread crumbs, thinking that her dignity would come out to eat them or something," says partygoer Bobby Booby. "Anything I could do to help." Party host Aaron McNerner excused the mess his guests made while looking for Blowhard’s dignity, saying he would just Febreeze his house later. Just when the search and rescue mission looked absolutely hopeless, Blowhard’s dignity resurfaced. "I finally found it on the bottom of my shoe. There was toilet paper stuck to it." Blowhard vows to keep her dignity with her at all times from now on. She is looking into purchasing a lock and key for extra security. "This sort of thing could happen to anyone. It’s so easy, especially at college parties. I just hope my story serves as a cautionary tale for others. I want people to be able to learn from my mistakes."
Drinking in the name of science
Fish Rap Live! Volume 17Some doctors and AA group leaders say that the human body reacts to alcohol depending on how many calories of ethanol are consumed. To test these theories, I decided to pick up a whammy of a drinking problem and a debatable eating disorder. For seven days, I will decrease the number of calories I get from food and increase the number from alcohol exponentially. Then, assuming I don’t die, I’ll record what happens. Day One: I get out of bed and rub the sleep out of my eyes. Today is the first day of my experiment. The sun seems to shine a little bit brighter today. In true alcoholic fashion, I fix myself a drink in secret before I even brush my teeth. It’s a screwdriver, since it seems like the most breakfast-y drink. Cheers to me! I feel the first one come back into my throat; drinking was obviously not made to be a morning ritual. But, I push through the initial pain, and the next two go down no problem. That’s 45 calories of ethanol plus some orange juice consumed on an empty stomach. I feel ready to conquer the world! Instead of conquering, I go on iTunes, buy a Fall Out Boy album, and have a dance party in place of a shower. Apparently, I don’t make good decisions while under the influence. Before I leave my apartment for class, I make a mixed drink out of Gatorade and vodka. I call it "Faderade." It will be my sustenance for the day. I am so excited about my creation that I forget to measure out the alcohol. In short, I have no idea how many calories I am consuming with this drink. Oops! Oh well. Every experiment is allowed a margin of error. Day One, later: I have a pounding headache. My lecture was fun because the letters on the PowerPoint were dancing to the rhythm of my pulsating nausea, but the fun ended as soon as I realized I couldn’t stay after class and sleep in my chair. I decide to combat my headache with a banana and a bottle of water. I debate taking Tylenol but decide against it because I’m still drunk. I don’t want to have to get my stomach pumped or something for mixing substances. My drunkenness eventually subsides, and when three o’clock rolls around, I think, "I should be fucked up right now." I go to my room and hold a shot up to my face. The mere smell makes my stomach churn. I throw back my head and swallow. Twenty seconds later, my head is down in my laundry basket. There go my 15 calories all over my jeans. Gross. No more experimenting for today. Day Two: The day after Day One. Jesus. Did I die? I kind of hope so. If I died it means I won’t have to get out of bed. But, dead people don’t get splitting headaches, which is definitely what I have. I go stand in the shower for half an hour and stare at the moving tile. I decide to hold off on the shots and only drink my Faderade. I remember that I should count the calories, but I’m in a bad mood, I have a headache, and I don’t fucking feel like counting, so whatever. I pour an obscene amount of alcohol into my bottle and don’t think about it. Margin error redux. Day Two, later: I’m in a Science Hill bathroom, puking up red liquid. Oh shit, my insides. WebMD said excessive binge drinking caused internal bleeding after years of abuse, not two days! After a mild panic attack, I realize that the only thing in my system besides clear vodka is red Gatorade. I wipe the puke off my mouth and laugh; I feel invincible again. Take that, Science Hill bathroom. Day Two, more later: I take four rounds of shots (60 calories) with some friends. I immediately feel sick and eat a piece of toast. I feel sicker and retreat to the nearest bush. This is a low point. I stagger back to my apartment, clutching my torso to comfort my dying insides. I throw up more in the sink while attempting to brush my teeth. There are leaves in my hair and I don’t care. I go to bed with the intention to sleep the entire next day away and the hope that I don’t pee my pants while doing so. Day Three: It’s a school night, and instead of reading about world economics, I decide to join my friends in a rousing game of beer pong. Under normal circumstances, I would not be drinking beer. I hate beer. However, playing beer pong seems like a good way to distract myself from the fact that I feel like shit. Besides, this is for science. Before I know it, I’m drunk. And, I’m happy. I hypothesize that this is because, for the first time in three days, I feel full (the average beer has about 150 calories, and only 13 percent of those calories come from ethanol). Unfortunately, these calories have no nutritional value, and my body rejects them -- straight into the toilet. Once I’m done retching, I stand over the bowl and marvel at my feat. "Look at all those empty calories," I think proudly, "that I just purged into the toilet." Good riddance. Does this make me bulimic? Like, officially? My original plan was to do this for a week. But then, I had a sudden epiphany: I’m not paying out my ass in student loans so I can die of alcohol poisoning or malnutrition. Fuck this. Fuck science. I’m a Lit major, for Christ sake. What do I care about science? I’m going to the dining hall. Final scientific conclusions (Note: all ethanol calories were consumed on an empty stomach) 15-45 calories = subject engages in topsy turvy fun 45-60 calories = subject experiences numbness on face and inexplicable cuts and bruises on body, but still feels pretty damn good 60-90 calories = subject feels a constant but not dire need to vomit; isn’t having that much fun 90-105 calories = subject has trouble reporting back with details due to a black out period and a bout of excessive vomiting 105-??? calories = death
