Last semester I fled Northern California for SLO, Santa Barbara, Malibu, and L.A. for a week, three friends in tow. Our final destination: San Diego. We judged Mexico a feasible prospect until notified Americans can enter Mexico without a passport, but can’t exit without a passport. As we contained only one passport between us, the Mexico scheme was reserved for another occasion.
One of our sojourns was my brother’s USC frat toga party. After much alcohol absorption, dancing, and toga lechery, we returned to my brother’s apartment for continued revelry. Two friends and I subsided on my brother’s bed, exhausted. I announced my intention for a twenty-minute nap and slithered into slumber.
I awoke forty minutes later, rejuvenated and energized to continue the festivities. I departed my brother’s room, leaving my two friends asleep, and infiltrated the masses satiating my brother’s apartment. Two stereotypical blonde skeletal Southern Cal girls, faces veiled with make-up, awarded me with disgusted gawks. I disregarded them and persisted in evading the crowds seeking Brother, friends, or cousins. More strangers’ repulsive glances caused me to observe my clothes. Nothing amiss. Shortly after, one of my cousins perceived me across the room and raced to me. He recommended I look in the mirror. I did to find thick black permanent pen lines drawn across my eyebrows, fashioning the most unsightly unibrow I have ever witnessed. My face was complete with three teardrops in the corner of my eye, allegedly a gang sign for how many people I’ve killed.