battle scars

A snippet of drunken poetry via text message:

Aww I’m dill
At stacia’s buy I’ll call you if I
Am coming to teds
At a

I assumed Sam was having a fun night, especially when, at 3 a.m., as Ted and I were recycling the bottles from the third installment of his birthday celebration, he texted again to tell me he was in a neighborhood far from home. But if he was having so much fun, what was he doing texting me?

“He BIT me. I have BITE MARKS,” Sam told me the next morning.

It was the worst hookup of his life, he claimed, and when I saw the damage on Monday morning, I believed him. A devastating hickey, teeth prints, the works.

And he’s dodging phone calls and texts and facebook friend requests from the culprit, unsure if he should somehow tell this boy that he’s doing it all wrong.

(Also we learned about some gel you can get from Whole Foods that makes bruises go away. Despite my skepticism, it seems to work.)


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