I have a thing about bunk beds. I know I’m fond of sharing my hatred for summer camp (BECAUSE IT IS A TORTUROUS HELL HOLE CREATED FOR THE MEAN OF SPIRIT AND BLACK OF HEART), and this is one of the reasons. When I was ten, my well-meaning parents shipped me off to summer camp with my friend Cheryl. Of course I wanted the top bunk, but Cheryl got it instead, and I sulked. About two days later, however, Cheryl fell out of the top bunk, and that was the end of her desire to have it. Naively, I jumped at the chance, because apparently watching somebody fall out (I literally rolled over that morning and saw Cheryl plummet to the ground) hadn’t convinced me that the top bunk was a thing of evil.
It’s worth noting that I had already been mildly traumatized by 1) the incident where I went to use the port-a-potty in the middle of the night and almost got trampled by horses that got loose from the barn, and 2) the incident where I watched my “bathroom buddy,” Rebecca, fall on a stick in the woods that went straight through her leg (hence the reason she wasn’t there to go with me to during the aforementioned port-a-potty incident).
Anyway, I was jumpy, and I woke up one morning in the glory of the top bunk, sat bolt upright in bed, and promptly smashed my head against the ceiling as forcefully as if I had done it on purpose. It wasn’t my proudest moment. What was worse was that I thought it was all good—I warded off every “are you okay?” with jokes and giggles—until we trudged off to breakfast. I was sitting there eating my Captain Crunch when Cheryl, who was sitting in front of me, suddenly adopted this look of eye-popping, jaw-dropping horror and shouted, “Oh my God!”… because blood was trickling down my forehead.
And that’s how I cracked my head open at the Sleepaway Camp of the Damned.
(That’s not to mention the girl who was allergic to bees and stepped on a hive. Our camp counselors were pathetically grateful when the week was over; clearly us girls of Cabin 4 were cursed.)