Angsty teen upset by the medical community

The Friday night of Halloween weekend, I, like every other college student in America, set out looking for a party that would justify drunkenly roaming the streets of Burlington dressed as a slutty cat or a culturally-appropriative Native American.

I went in my own clothes only to be continually asked if I was dressed as Mac DeMarco, a self-described “jizz-jazz” singer/songwriter.

Therefore it seems safe to assume that on any given weekend, I look like a 25-year-old male stoner.


Eventually embracing my DeMarco facade (which I assumed meant I could act like an asshole for the rest of the night without any repercussions), I continued on being led from one place to the next.

We eventually landed at a spot that was later described as “somewhere close to Trinity.”

It was the first time I had returned anywhere near that area of the city since I had fled from the campus as a naïve and terrified first-year.  

From this point on, I spent my time wandering through the massive crowd, taking classic shots on my Amazon-bought polaroid like the artist I am and running into my old Trinity friends that I had not seen since I was caught deserting my room with packed bags.

The theme of the night was for me to be reminded of how uncomfortable and awkward I was this time last year (thankfully, I was now fully grown into the Mac DeMarco impersonator I was meant to be).

To continue the success of the night, I decided to throw myself down the stairs of a stranger’s home and simultaneously fractured one ankle and sprained the other.

Unable to walk or truly understand what was going on, I sat on the steps I had just fallen down silently (I hope) weeping as I sent my friends angry text messages to come help me and lecture them about how they should have dutifully been by my side the entire time.

Soon enough, my friend Jessa was beside me, patting my back, stroking my hair and whispering to me that nothing was probably wrong and my drunken state was making me feel vulnerable.

For whatever reason, every other girl at the party seemed to feel a sense of camaraderie toward the crying girl on the steps, and almost every one that passed by stopped to lean down and whisper “he’s not worth it.”

The immediate assumption that any girl crying at a party must have been mistreated by  a boy is relatively disheartening and obviously dangerous, considering I needed legitimate medical attention.

Thankfully,  my friends were able to drag me from the party, into my own car and to the hospital where they kindly waited for the next six hours while I slept in a hospital bed.

During this time, my friends undressed me, I had several X-rays taken, new hospital clothes were put on, a cast was put on my leg and the doctor told me the results of the X-rays. A small knit sock was tied around my foot for warmth.

I remembered none of this. I had to be told the next morning.

The aftermath of the night resulted in a six-week cast, two parking tickets and a dead car battery.

It also resulted in me angrily crutching around campus in a fit of fury over my own stupidity.

My confusion remains as to how the medical community hasn’t come up with a better alternative to the basic and inconvenient crutch.