At this moment, I am sitting at my desk in my room at Tripp Hall. My shirt has some pretty serious deodorant stains and I'm wearing really old Laguna flip-flops (that's right, I said, ""flip-flops"") and really old Soffe shorts. Also, I have a grape sucker in my mouth.
How did this happen? How did my current situation arise? What is the causal story here?
Once upon a time when I was a sophomore, I had a nosebleed after drinking two beers (they were Central Waters Bourbon Barrel—potent shit). Then, I passed out on the floor of Chadbourne's sixth floor women's bathroom. I woke up to the dulcet tones of house fellow voices. Some paramedic types were there as well. They breathalyzed me and I blew a .12. Because the paramedic police folks were called in, this counted as two strikes against me instead of one.
A couple weeks later, Halloween happened. I have no recollection of talking to the house fellows this time, but according to my roommate, when my HoFo asked me, ""How much did you have to drink?"" I responded, ""An adequate amount.""
Even when I'm black-out drunk, I'm still fucking eloquent.
Subsequently, the Chadbourne authorities informed me that I may soon find myself on the street. Fortunately, my father came to my rescue, on the condition that I not have a drop until Thanksgiving. In the meeting with the housing authorities, my father attempted to interest my prosecutors with details from the history of the Botkin family (he researched them when my mother was in graduate school and living in Botkin house of Tripp Hall). I saw the authorities' eyes glaze at the historical detail, and I thought, ""Fuck you. My father deserves your respect.""
Thus, when I received e-mails from university housing asking if I wanted to come back, and after I realized I didn't want to expend the energy to find somewhere else to live (I hadn't paid any attention when my peripheral friends were all signing leases—that's a whole other causal story—and my roommate was studying abroad in Sweden for all of junior year), I signed up to live in Botkin Tripp, because it already meant something to my family.
So, that's the causal story behind my decision to live in Tripp. Obviously, causes for my past reckless drinking habits exist. I maintain that some of the reason I got so effing drunk is because my genes told my body to be tiny. And adorable. But easily shitfaced and, therefore, easy rapist prey.
The deodorant stains happened because I have worn this shirt numerous times to the gym without regard for how long it has been since I washed it (my attitude of disregard has a causal story behind it too).
The flip-flops come from the deep past. I think I was under age 10 when they were purchased. They have proven to be the most durable sandals I have owned up to this point in my life (certainly there is a causal story about the Laguna sandal company people and their decision-making when it comes to flip-flop design).
About an hour ago, I took off my pants in order to have a little bonding time with myself (I am single and have learned that hooking up with people I don't want to date is harmful to my mental health. Causal story. Would you rather have heard that one instead of the how-I-learned-alcohol-is-not-my-best-friend story?).
Then, I put shorts on because I don't plan on leaving the building before bed (I have to get up early for my first transcendental meditation lesson. Causal story.) Lastly, the grape sucker. I have no recollection of where I got it from, but it's been in my room for a long, long time. (Causal story? It tastes good and makes my teeth feel nasty.)
What do the tangled threads of causality signify? They signify that nothing is ""random"" (except grape suckers). That is, all situations depend on the events that came before. No event arises independently. In other words, shit doesn't just happen.
Comments? E-mail Angelica at aengel2@wisc.edu.
