It happens to the best of us, and by the best of us, I mean me.

One minute, you’re quietly writing a paper in your dorm room in Donlon. The next, you are parading the halls with 37 pages of freshly printed haikus and taping them to the front of every door, next to a collage of you, your roommate and downloaded pictures of plus-size porn. One minute, you’re getting dressed for practice, the next, you’re unrecognizable in a head-to-toe black Under Armor suit, roundhouse kicking petrified freshmen, and responding only when referred to as “The North Campus Ninja.”

One minute, you are behaving normally and abiding by the rules of propriety, and the next, you are saying or doing something you’d never, ever say or do while socially conscious. When some bystander questions you, “Why did you do that?” you can honestly respond, “I have no idea.”

Sun Podcast: A podcast is available for this column. Click here to listen to or to download it.This, my friends, is what I call a social blackout: A moment lasting anywhere from four seconds (“Hunny, I’ve always wanted to wrestle your dad”) to an entire decade (the 80s, for just about everyone involved). During this unspecified period of time, you somehow forget every social rule and façade of coolness, and become truly and enthusiastically awkward.

And I’m not talking about the occasional slip of the tongue, whether in someone else’s mouth or your own. I don’t mean forgetting deodorant or the name of your girlfriend’s dead grandma. I’m referring to wearing a sombrero and shaking maracas in your driver’s license photo, grinding with your cousin at a family wedding, “jokingly” pushing your petite girlfriend down the slope simply out of curiosity. I’m talking about socially retarded actions that carry long-term consequences, and yet are executed with precision, gusto and, sometimes, even extensive planning.

I’ve realized that during these social blackouts, what we want to do is completely incompatible with what’s expected of us, and we are forced to make behavioral decisions under stressful and distracting conditions. We reply by making neither the right nor the wrong decision, but rather the freakishly uncomfortable one. The result is stuff of legends.

Where you should have said “no thanks,” you don’t even manage “yes please.” Instead, you scream “MY GERMS” and stick your finger in the unfinished dinner of your new boyfriend’s trophy mom. You return to your senses with a finger full of mashed potatoes in your mouth, trying to read what minimal expression her over-Botoxed head allows. The kicker is that you have no idea what provoked you.

Well, I’ll tell you: under a stress-intensive situation, such as impressing the reigning Ms. Yacht Club 2007, your body blacks out years of social learning, and you’re free to do whatever tickles your immediate fancy.

After hearing, witnessing and headlining many social blackouts, I have managed to categorize them into five overlapping genres, based on intention and cause. Enjoy.

The Van Gogh: Done in the presence/for the attention of a member of the opposite sex.

Cause of blackout: Sexual frustration.

Including, but not limited to: cutting off your ear lobe and mailing it to your beloved brothel wench. Any conversations with the opposite sex that include “But I like your saddlebags,” or “The doctors say the ointment should clear it up in no time.” Salsa lessons. Quoting John Legend to express how you feel. Following her to her townhouse yelling, “You don’t know how I could love you!” Mix tapes. Dying your black hair bleach blonde. Emo music. Irish people or dudes at tanning beds.

The Dubya Bush: Done enthusiastically and/or violently, usually at the expense of everyone else.

Cause of blackout: Childlike enthusiasm, shortened attention span.

Including, but not limited to: Throwing oranges at the walls/staff of Jameson. Duct taping all of a stranger’s possessions to the ceiling of a random, unlocked dorm room. Spandex on fat people. The movie Gigli. Insufficient lycra and spandex content in females’ running attire.

The Mr. Rogers: I might be alone on this, but my conscious sounds a lot like Mr. Rogers. Throughout these blackouts, I am fully aware that my actions are, at best, the social equivalent of setting flame to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe, but that doesn’t stop me.

Cause of blackout: Yet to be discovered, but most often, general social ineptitude.

Including, but not limited to: Smoking a cigarette by the “art” sculptures in Collegetown. Telling jokes during sex. Playing with your sister’s droopy arm fat. Dead baby jokes in front of children/new parents/pregnant teens. Porn as a first date conversation topic. Leather vests.

The Courtney Love: Loud, ugly and under the influence.

Cause of blackout: Poor lifestyle decisions.

Including but not limited to: Throwing your shoes at Madonna and Kurt Loder. Drunk dialing your boss/coach/piano teacher. Slapping a gymnast and screaming, “I’ve always wanted to punch a midget!” Facial licking. Choreographed dances to “Jesse’s Girl” and/or the Mortal Combat theme song. Attending class on Slope Day. Building a pillow fort at a frat party.

The Glitter: Performed under the impression that this is the most brilliant idea you’ve ever had. Your friends are backing you up, cheering you on … anndd then you’re ruined.

Cause of blackout: They-won’t-see-this-one-coming blinding excitement.

Including, but not limited to: Mariah Carey acting. Leaving an anonymous valentine on her “usual seat” at Trillium. Brooklyn blowouts. Purchasing a PT Cruiser. Publicly naming your genitalia. The Pink Ranger costume after October.

This disease, like Tourette’s syndrome, elephantitis and obesity, is no laughing matter. However, if you already laugh at twitchy, medicated children, extreme disproportion and FUPAS, this one is not going to make or break Judgment Day. And oh yeah, let’s hang out.

Shannan Scarselletta is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at sms254@cornell.edu. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Wednesdays.