As you may or may have figured out (depending on your aptness for perception and/or your ability to read the previous pages of this paper), this is the Halloween edition. Thus, I had been planning on dishing out the details of everyone’s favorite Halloween themed– Cornell party, Masquerave. Unfortunately for all you guys and dolls who have been faithfully reading me all this time because I am your preferred Daze columnist (or, evermore so realistically, been reading me because your Intro to Sociology lecture is incredibly boring and this is the only way that you can manage to keep yourself awake), I am not going to divulge all of Masquerave’s secrets. The event is truly unique and I recommend each Cornellian attend it, but it is beyond my ability to describe. So while this week’s column is related to Masquerave, it actually is about an event that took place outside of Risley, as I waited in line for Masquerave to start.
My friend, let’s call him Josh, and I planned and prepared for Masquerave in advance, having heard of its awesomeness. We found appropriately distinctive costumes (by which I mean we put something together 57 minutes beforehand which involved a hunter’s hat, a scarf and an African tribal suit … further details upon request), pregamed accordingly (as is necessary for any night out – weekend or weekday, presumptively sober or not), and then left on our merry way. What we were not prepared for was a line so long that you would have thought we were homeless people waiting in line at a soup kitchen on Christmas. What choice did we have but to wait? And so, we did.
We waited for ten minutes. Then fifteen more. Then another half an hour. About an hour into our waiting, I had enough. I had to pee like a damn racehorse. For those of you who don’t have the pleasure of having a bladder the size of a beer pong ball, let me tell you that it is a curse. In fact, I would go so far as saying that my small bladder is God’s way of smiting me for some previous sin (yes, God can shrink bladders, because at the age of ten I probably could’ve drained Lake Michigan and still not had to pee for another ten or so hours). So I caved. I peed outside of Risley.
I want to let everyone reading this know that I didn’t just pee right there in line. I wasn’t quite that intoxicated … though I may have briefly considered it. I went around the back of the building and tried to find a quiet spot. I saw some bushes and jumped at the chance to relieve myself. But halfway through the act, I heard that rustle of leaves and the crunch of gravel that indicates only one thing – an intruder in my private (okay, not so private) moment. I hurried to finish but I’d had too much to drink to be able to finish and get my pants up before the passersby saw me … tribal pants at my ankles and no toilet paper in sight.
Was I embarrassed? Not terribly so. Was I glad that I was incognito in my hot pink shutter shades (waddup Kanye?) and stoner hat? You bet. My conclusion isn’t really about peeing outside of Risley though. It’s more along the lines of the general idea of performing private acts in public. Taking a piss, fornicating, etc. You name it, if it’s private, I bet I know ten kids here who’ve done it outside of Risley, in the stacks of Uris, or at least behind the Law Library (ah, Myron Taylor would be so proud). But why? Is it really because you can’t wait? Could you possibly have to have sex so bad that you had to do it in a public restroom at the mall? Could you possibly have to pee so bad that you thought you were in danger of having your bladder explode?
First and foremost, it is impossible for your bladder to explode. My home dawg Nikhita recently found herself in a traffic jam and, like myself, having a bladder so small that it couldn’t handle a cup or two (or thirty, knowing her) of coffee, she desperately googled if it was actually possible for your bladder to explode. It isn’t. And we all know that you can wait to drive home from the mall for sex. So the real reason that we do it? It’s the thrill. It’s the chance that someone might catch you with your hoo-hoo out. So take this column as a piece of advice for your Halloween weekend – do some damage in public; it’s fun!