Chris Walker Vs. How My First College Relationship Ended

Due to the overwhelming response from Chris Walker Vs. The Guy Who Wanted To Race Me. I’ve decided to continue dipping into my back catalog to entertain you. Today, I’m going to share what might be my favorite story ever. It has everything: violence, romance, destruction, and chicken wings. Granted, it’s a bit long but if you’re a fan of all the things I mentioned (and I know I am) you’re going to love it.

I was a sophomore in college, living in a shitty apartment with the Wild Indian and his crazy girlfriend who we’ll call ShitFucker’s Mom (because we called her dog ShitFucker). I hated living in this apartment because I hated living with ShitFucker’s Mom so I drank a lot. Wild Indian is borderline genius so he studied all the time; I was undeclared so I did just enough to get a B average before eventually becoming a Communications major. In other words: I was having fun while he wasn’t. One random Thursday night a bunch of people came over; Wild Indian was studying in his bedroom. I would occasionally knock on his door, check up on him, and sneak him a beer while ShitFucker’s Mom sat on his bed, squawking like a pterodactyl.

Around 3:00 AM a ragtag assortment of friends: The Doe, X5, and whoever else was left over, were getting ready to go out for food and I invited Wild Indian along. He decided to come. Just as we were heading out the door ShitFucker’s Mom started having a hissy-fit, telling Wild Indian he couldn’t go. Wild Indian just gave me the “What can I do?” look. I could’ve let it go and left without him but I’d had enough; ShitFucker’s played this game way too often. it was time to take a stand.

I sent Wild Indian outside with the other guys and manned the door while ShitFucker’s Mom launched into frenzy. I told her, “Listen, you never let him come out with us. All we’re doing is going out to get some food; this is bullshit; he’s going.” Wild Indian was my best friend and I was sick of watching this psychotic bitch ruin his life. ShitFucker’s Mom slapped me in the face, stomped into the kitchen, and started screeching. I screamed, “You’re fucking crazy!” That made her start smashing beer bottles in the sink. I tore over to the kitchen counter and yelled at her to stop. Midway through my yelling she picked up another empty beer bottle and swung it at my face, barely missing me. “Whoa,” I countered. “You’re insane. I’m out of here.” I left the apartment.

Suddenly, as if the heaven’s parted and God himself spoke down to Earth, a boomingly loud “Chris!” erupted into the night air. I swear the ground shook. Wild Indian looked at me again and said, “You guys just go without me.” After living with this Satan Woman for too many months, having my personal space violated and disregarded, being slapped, yelled at, and having a beer bottle swung at my face I decided I just wasn’t going to let it slide. She was a plague upon our once happy home. I ran back into the apartment and confronted her.

She was on Wild Indian’s bed when I entered the house. I got right into her face, told her she was a bitch, told her she wasn’t welcome in my home, she wasn’t paying rent, get the fuck out and then – thunk. Followed by thunk. Followed by another thunk. Mid-screaming match she had picked up a beer bottle and struck me across the face once and then twice on the top of my head. The beer bottle never broke. A couple seconds went by before I realized what had happened. I was just standing there thinking, “Did she just do what I think she did?” I was like a dog when you bop it on the nose and it forgets what it was doing.

After realizing “Yes, she really did just hit you with a beer bottle,” I told her to wait right there while I went and got my sledge hammer (I used to carry a sledge hammer around with me but once again, another story). When I came back with it she had her cell phone in hand, claiming she was calling the police. That was my cue to leave.

I told The Doe and X5 what happened and they drove me to Big Thunda and Tito Kastro’s apartment first, then Supergene’s apartment. Somewhere in-between those two drives I called my girlfriend at the time and left her a message like this:

“Hey cutie, it’s me. It’s Walker. Well, I just got smashed over the head with a beer bottle. I’m bleeding a little. Nothing too bad. I think I have a concussion, I might be bleeding internally. Oh well, well, if I die tonight I just wanted you to know I thought you were pretty cool. Anyway, yeah, I might die. Gimme a call back.”

She never called me back.

The following morning I woke up feeling like death. I was shaking, my head was pounding, I was destroyed however; I still made it to school. This was my first substantial encounter with The Name That Shall Not Be Mentioned. I was sitting in the University of Las Vegas, Nevada Student Union, half-alive, telling a group of friends about night’s shenanigans; I had long hair at the time and The Name That Shall Not Be Mentioned was sitting beside me, pushing my hair behind my ears and baseball cap. I thought she was an angel and she really was… for about four months. Then we endured what I now refer to as The Two and a Half Years of My Life I Want Back.

Sitting in my first and only class of the day, I told myself, “Do not die from internal bleeding, do not die from internal bleeding,” for a full hour. Afterward, I called Tito Kastro and he told me to meet him at the cabanas at Bally’s Hotel and Casino. The cabana fridge was stocked solid with beer. Having a hangover, mild concussion, and slight chance of internal bleeding I did what any reasonable person would do: I started drinking.

Beer number one was hard to get down. Beer number two was a little easier. By beer number three I no longer felt pain. I was born anew through the medicinal power of barely and hops and whatever else. I received zero “Are you okay?” calls from the current girlfriend.

After hanging out at the cabana all day, we went to a Greek talent show, or something, back at the UNLV Student Union. The Name That Shall Not Be Mentioned was there and she invited us out to eat with her sorority sisters. We went, and I spent the next two nights hooking up with her on a pullout couch.

If you couldn’t tell, I’d given up on my other relationship. She never called me back; it was clearly time to move on. I finally got ahold of her the following Monday night. First I said, “You didn’t even think to call you when I told you there was a possibility of me dying?” I don’t remember her answer. Then I said, “Do you still have my 49ers t-shirt? Alright, I’m going to swing by and grab it.” When I got to her dorm room she had the t-shirt in hand. I took it from her, smirked, waved, and walked away. She blurted out, “You’re not even going to talk to me?” I never looked back.

The following morning I was sitting at the dining table, eating cheerios, when ShitFucker’s Mom sat down across from me. She apologized for hitting me in the face with a beer bottle. I told her not to worry; I was over it. And I really was. Sometimes a crazy bitch smacks you in the head with a beer bottle. It happens. If you can’t forgive and move forward you’re not a real man.

Posted: April 20th, 2006 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Uncategorized | No Comments »