Sometimes things happen to me that are complete accidents and aren’t really anyone’s fault. Like the time I shaved off the tip of a friend’s finger with an ax while chopping wood. (Really, it wasn’t my fault. It was just bad timing.)

Sometimes things happen that are completely unintentional but are the result of some careless act. I don’t intend any harm, but I do something stupid, and it turns into something dangerous.

For instance, at the summer camp I attended as a child, there was a very popular game called carpetball. It was basically like the game of pool except the table was narrow rather than wide, covered in carpet rather than felt (hence the name); there were only two pockets as opposed to six, and rather than hitting the cue ball with pool cues, the players rolled it with their hands. And instead of a smoky, dimly-lit pool hall, the carpet ball tables stood in the cement-floored shelterhouse surrounded by bright green grass. Okay, maybe it was nothing like pool, but the point is, it used ceramic pool-esque balls.

Occasionally, some of the kids would get a little too aggressive and roll the ball harder than necessary, causing it to jump the sides of the table and go bouncing around the shelterhouse. On one such occasion, I was approaching the shelterhouse when a particularly ambitious carpetball sailed out and landed near me. The carpetball crowd inside shouted for me to throw it to them. A boy stepped out from the group to catch it. Picking the ball up off the lawn, I rejected the underhand toss and opted for the overhand, bouncing return.

The first bounce struck the cement floor of the shelterhouse and caused a rebound a little stronger than I had allowed for. Consequently, when the ball reached the boy, it was traveling faster than I had expected. He caught it up by his face and the momentum carried his hands and the ball up to his mouth. His front tooth shattered, scattering pieces all over the floor. Whoops!

Then there are the things that happen just because I don’t stop to think. If I paused for a moment to consider, I would realize that what I’m about to do is completely inappropriate. But instead I charge ahead.

Take, for example, one fine summer evening when I was lounging in front of the TV with my friends, Eric, Joni and Ransom. We were half-heartedly watching a movie and munching on some junk food we had just picked up at the convenience store. Our snack supplies included a bag of Pixie Stix. (In case you’re not familiar with this item, Pixie Stix are little paper straws filled with flavored sugar. The different flavors — blue, green, pink, orange, purple — correspond with the colors of the different straws. They’re very festive and tasty.)

We began a discussion regarding what it would be like to inhale some of the pixie powder. Perhaps we had seen too many TV junkies or movie rock stars doing lines off mirrors at wild parties or in hotel bathrooms. Perhaps we were just dumb. Either way, our discussion ended in a decision to sample a snort of our little sugary treat.

One problem: No one was keen on volunteering to be the guinea pig. Eventually we all wanted to try it. Maybe. If the first person said it didn’t hurt too bad. But nobody wanted to be that first person. So Eric, Joni and I elected Ransom for the honor.

We told him that he had to be the first brave one and repeatedly asked him to please, please try it for us. When that didn’t work, two of us held him down while the other poured a pixie stix up his nose. Although he was stronger than any of us, he only struggled lightly. (He probably didn’t want to hurt us.) As the pixie solution burned his nose, his face scrunched up and his eyes began watering profusely.

Finally, one of us (I’d like to say it was me, but I can’t remember), recognized that Ransom was truly suffering, and we released him. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes quietly. He didn’t yell at us or demand revenge. He just looked at us with his sad, watery eyes and sniffed.

I’m not particularly proud of the stories I’ve just told. (I’m especially ashamed of the almost “Lord of the Flies” way I acted with the Pixie Stix affair.) But they’re pretty funny for a laugh. They make me sound a little reckless with axes, broken teeth, etc. Nobody really got hurt.

But that’s not the point. I was irresponsible. Someone could have been hurt. Although I don’t suggest living life agonizing over all the things that could happen, I think we’d all do well to proceed with a little more caution when the situation warrants (operating axes, throwing hard objects, handling unstable sugar compounds, etc.).

Specifically, I mean this weekend at Veishea. I know, I know. I hate to get too topical on you, but I think it’s important.

I won’t bother trying to convince those of you who are set on drinking (and/or getting drunk) that you shouldn’t because you are probably sick of hearing it and couldn’t care less what I think. But, if I could, I have one thing to ask of you. Please, please, please be careful. People never plan for bad stuff to happen, but it still does. Don’t be stupid. Keep your wits about you and think.

Juli Hisel is a sophomore in English from Richland.