after a blurry night of all-you-can-eat brazilian meat and veggies, magnums of cab, and a series of high stakes pool involving shots of absolut los angeles as punishment for scratching (we still have zero clue how this vile bottle came into our possession), i wrote the following on alex's facebook wall this morning:
"so. i got hammered drunk last night. surprising, i know. pretty certain i'm still incapable of operating heavy machinery. i'm sure justin can fill you in with sufficient play-by-play.
anyway, when i woke up this morning, i didn't remember shit, but i was pretty convinced i'd puked. upon checking our bathrooms and kitchen and my laundry, however, i couldn't find any evidence; and seeing my mouth tasted surprisingly fine, i just shrugged it off and figured i'd dreamt the whole thing up.
just now, i stepped out on my balcony to have a cig, looked down at the alley, and found more than enough purple evidence."
disgusting, yes. and yes, our alley neighbors were probably less than thrilled to be treated a veritable aria of bodily sounds (i'm a "yeller") somewhere around midnight. frankly, i'm deeply apologetic toward anyone who even read any of that.
i suppose what troubles me most--aside from the fact that i'm apparently 26 going on 21 and throwing up from my second floor balcony--is how, in this time of crisis, i opted for the balcony over my bathroom. given, the former is attached to my room and closer to the side of my bed i sleep on... but we're talking a difference of maybe six steps here (four or five, if i'm hurrying, which i'd imagine i was).
clearly, all the quality time i've spent out there these last couple weeks is starting to rub off on me.
• distance from my bed: 10 feet
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