As a cheesy tattoo reality show once said, "Every body has a story." I know at least some of you have studied mine. Can each curve, bump, puffy lip and turn of ankle tell something essential? Is there a side my friends don't see when we get wasted and they watch me stumble towards my ever-solidifying destiny of holy goof-ness?

As I write this, I'm sitting in a motel in Flagstaff, Arizona, downing Emergen-C with my Miller Lite and nursing multiple battle injuries. I'm in the bathtub so as not to disturb my sleeping companions, who've just informed me I go at the keyboard like I have a grudge against it. As always, South by Southwest happened so hard and fast I'm still trying to figure out if I dreamed it all. I threw out my bag of SXSW crap. Pictures glow from the screen, but what I can touch is my body. I see its marks, I feel them, and, when I press on them, they fucking hurt. Maybe they can map a way back into this rapidly receding thing. After all, I'm pretty sure I was there.

Bruise on Top of Left Foot

This happened when I saw HEARTSREVOLUTION at Beauty Bar. Their sexy electro had all the drunks jumping up and down so joyously no one noticed if they stomped on a foot or two, least of all mine. Leila Safai is the ultimate party pixie, packing mondo energy into her tiny frame, then shooting it at you. Am I allowed to quote myself? Oh well, I'm doing it anyway.

Source: The New York Press

The chance to get those tits out came swiftly in the form of a surprise run-in with my old friend Merlin Bronques. Naked in the bathroom at Beauty Bar just like the old days. I almost shed tears of nostalgia, it was such a throwback. Merlin makes me look pretty even when I'm not wearing concealer and haven't slept or put down the bottle in days. Kind of busted but in a hot way, maybe? I love that man.

Scrape on Upper Right Thigh

This happened when I was jumping a fence in an attempt to climb up on the roof of Ms. Bea's to see Health pound out a fitting finale to Todd P's orgy of unofficial rocking. Regular clumsiness worsened by hits off someone's joint, that evil fence caught me in the ass-thigh just when I thought I'd cleared it. It also caught my nice new American Apparel pencil skirt (please send free shit), revealing my purple leopard print undies to all. A good Samaritan helped free me and didn't even stare at my ass, that I know of.

From the roof a panoramic soundscape unfolded. For two minutes, all was sheer noisy bliss, with breezes and crackling sound currents intermingling. Then Todd yelled at us to abort before the scrap wood shanty that is Ms. Bea's collapsed. Like a cat in a tree, I spun all gears puzzling over just how to get down. Unlike that cat, I showed more people my ass before falling unceremoniously into the underbrush.

Bruise on Left Buttock

Followed by:

Assorted Thigh Bruises, Leg Abrasions

It's hard to recall just when and where each of these occurred. I know I woke up with some on Sunday, some Monday, so it's a good bet to say the first group of friends came to me as I floated into the numerous bony people and assorted unforgiving obstacles at the Vice party. When I arrived, Titus Andronicus were playing. Their noisy, anthemic rock with shaky vocals reminds me simultaneously of early Bright Eyes and Bruce Springsteen. I pushed up to the front and went to town. Unlike most afterparties, I didn't feel like shit by the end. This was due to the fact that the only free booze was tequila, which falls out of my mouth like poison, and beer, which I can only drink so much of. Despite missing my old pal whiskey, I sampled a veritable thali plate of Hunter's little helpers, which interfered with one another and cancelled each other out until I was so fucked I wasn't fucked at all.

The next night I went to the most awesomely terrifying party the world has ever seen. Bike punks, fireworks and broken glass spelled F-U-N. More bruising was a given but I counted myself lucky to have escaped with my face intact. I'm a tad neurotic about the ol' shana punim, as I know it'll be my primary dick-bait when I get fat.

Mega Scrape on Left Knee

Somewhere along the line I managed to meet a boy who likes all the same weird things as me. When he asked me to ride on his handlebars (no mustache) I thought my wee heart might pop. We felt it would be best to let Asobi Seksu cloak us in their layered mass of sound, with loud whispers of Cocteau tumbling from Yuki Chikudate's pretty mouth. Afterwards, I rode again with squeals of failing to be serious and coy until an unscheduled date with pavement (no Malkmus) ended it. The blood poured down into my dirty boot but I couldn't stop laughing at its sheer red ridiculousness. It keeps on cracking and sprouting little beads, but I don't mind since I know it'll heal eventually and it helps me remember how much I love that goddamn music festival.



Hunter is a Brooklyn-based writer currently contributing to Vice, The New York Press, Impose, and The L Magazine. If you email her at hunter.suicide AT gmail DOT com, chances are she'd love to add your publication to that list. Seriously, she's got some time on her hands.