This weekend I made the trek back up to Missouri, where I spent my all-too-short college years, for the annual border wars game versus the University of Kansas.

It’s one of those games every year that every alumnus in the continental United States comes back for, and I knew it was going to be OOC — that’s out of control. I was totally prepared to be nursing a mean hangover on my flight back, but I wasn’t expecting having to deal with actual battle scars.

I was seized from behind during Saturday’s tailgate with an overzealous embrace from one of my sorority sisters. I hadn’t seen her in quite a while, and I guess my homecoming combined with her Screwdrivers overwhelmed her sense of propriety and depth perception. I did a near face plant in the asphalt, but was able to get my hands down to save my sweet mug.

As we rolled around in the Arrowhead parking lot, proclaiming our mutual adoration and attracting the perplexed (or aroused, it was difficult to ascertain) attention of onlookers, I realized I was bleeding. Profusely. From my elbow, where a twin-set of inch-diameter gashes had appeared. Moments later I was on my feet and proudly showing my wound off to my classmates, trying not to drip on my own shoes.

Not wanting to risk getting parking lot grime in my cut, I grabbed the nearest antiseptic (Ketel One, it stings), doused my elbow in it and kept on trucking.

It wasn’t my first rodeo, and it wasn’t my first experience with accompanying injuries. Below are some of my favies:

Zick Nick – A “Zick Nick” is my term for any alcohol-related head trauma, whether it’s bonking your head on the toilet, closing it in the cab door or, as my friend Julie Zick did, toppling off a retaining wall at formal. Julie’s poor little noggin was especially badly served; she suffered a mild concussion and now has a half-dollar-sized bald spot (only visible when her hair is pulled up). No elegant up-do on her wedding day.

Stiletto Splints – I wish I could say that the shooting pain up the front of my legs was from religious jogging around Rice University, I really do. But the truth of the matter is that when my calves are sore, it’s not a dedicated workout program that’s at fault, it’s my four-inch platform Calvin Kleins.

Crouching Tiger Throbbing Quadricep – I don’t know what kind of crazy would subscribe to excruciating wall sits when I get the same workout every Friday and Saturday night. Ever since I learned to “drop it like it’s hot” at my senior lock-in, I can count on having trouble sitting down the next day. It seems I just can’t say no to getting low.

Beard Burn – I got a text message this summer from my best friend’s mom demanding, “Have you SEEN Mimi’s chin?” Beard burn, the peeling that comes after a voracious makeout sesh with someone sporting five o’clock shadow, is no new phenomenon. It may have been a while since Mrs. D suffered it herself, but she wasn’t buying her daughter’s over-exfoliation excuse.

Booze Bruises – Discovering those unexplained and oddly placed (what did I sit on?) bumps the next morning is like trying to unravel the mystery of Stonehenge. You don’t know who or what’s responsible, it lasts forever and it can attract hordes of curious onlookers.

My elbow is healing up nicely, and I’m expecting to be scab and booze bruise-free by next weekend. I am slightly embarrassed, but I’m definitely not sorry I party.