When I was 20 years old and a student at the University of Arkansas, my two friends Jimmy and Andrew and I decided to spend our Saturday night by getting out of the doldrums of the dorm and going to a Mexican restaurant known for its delicious, gut-busting food. We didn’t realize that it was Valentine’s Day until the host told us it might be hard for us to get a table on Valentine’s Day, Ohhergod, what were we thinking? We said we’d wait, because we obviously had nothing better to do, and because we seriously underestimated people’s desire to eat gut-busting food with the person they loved.
Thanks to the creative problem-solving of the restaurant staff, the three of us wound up sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, directly across from a mariachi band that had been hired that night. I watched a man sing with all his might about the affairs of the corazon. I accidentally made eye contact with one of the members of the band while he was scanning the room. I watched the structural integrity of a spit valve on a trumpet fail. The cheese dip was solid, though.
We returned to the dorms to play Tony Hawk Underground on the Xbox, which had been won earlier in the year by easily gaming a local Taco Bell email contest. Shortly after returning, Jimmy, feeling the effects of food poisoning, began projectile vomiting. Andrew took the lead in the cleanup, and I continued to complete goals on Tony Hawk Underground. Andrew left to go to the pharmacy and came back having smashed his car into a vehicle barrier, leaving a pretty gnarly indent on the front of his Saturn. Jimmy continued to vomit. I damn near beat Tony Hawk in one sitting, though.