My Friday, my Michigan Game Eve, was filled with nakedness and broken dishes. In that order.

Two out of my four roommates went home, and with the other one out for the day, I began my dreams of a Michigan victory by dancing around my apartment -- with myself -- to the likes of BSB, NSync and pre-shave, pre-baby Britney.

After my intense dance to the PSU victory gods (which apparently was not good enough) I decided to take a shower. Not wanting to end the solo dance party, I turned my music up, forgot a towel, stripped down au natural and lathered up.

At the end of my extraordinary shower, which was highlighted by a stellar rendition of Spice Up Your Life by The Spice Girls, I stepped out of the shower, dried off with a hand towel, and looked up to find my roommate's boyfriend -- who apparently has a key to my four-girl apartment -- gaping at me in my birthday suit.

Very nice, how much?

Later, after I decided to cover up and save what little dignity I had, and after celebrating one Katie Maloney's 20th birthday (!), I trekked over to Meridian Apartments, 636 E. College Ave., where I was soon engulfed in World War III. Hence the broken dishes.

Alcohol affects people in different ways, as I'm sure you nightlifers have noticed. My one friend tends to gravitate towards police officers (don't try that at home, kids), another is prone to Wing Zone (can you say freshman 15?) and one particular nightlifer tends to not only annihilate his otherwise-nice apartment, but break dinner plates over his mass of blond hair. No, really. I can't even make that up.

I met him on the street despite the fact that he knew my friends and I were coming over to his apartment. He had no idea where he was going, but once he us, he turned around. With a mumbled "blah mrah blahrahrah BITCH" he led us back into his apartment, his yellow duckie-printed pajamas clearly giving him a pretty satisfying wedgie. Well, unfortunately for him, his wedgie would be the least of his problems that night.

Now it's time for the nightlifer's imagery. First, the once-blue carpet was stained with (I hope) fruit punch everywhere. Stepping into one of his bathrooms, I noticed that someone had clearly never learned the proper way to use a toilet. Feces goes inside the toilet, toilet paper outside. A whole roll of Charmin, however, seemed to be taking a bath in the toilet, accompanied by a shower stall door that "somehow" was off its hinge.

An ear of corn on the floor and some insulation dangling from the ceiling later, my friend spontaneously decided that breaking dishes over his head would be great fun for the whole family. I assume he was drinking Guinness that night. "BRILLIANT!!"

After somehow breaking two dinner plates -- ceramic dinner plates -- over his head despite our attempts to stop him, I was privy to more blood on one person than in the entire movie of Gladiator. To be quite honest with you nightlifers, there is nothing sexier than a man dripping with blood standing in front of you, wearing duckie PJs and with a towel mummy-wrapped around his head. And it's also opposite day.

And that's my naked, broken-dished Friday night.

And then we lost to Michigan on Saturday, and I do not have a reason to live anymore. Anyone got a couple ceramic dinner plates they don't need?

--Lauren