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Roger
So… I’m guessing I kept partying last night.
Because when I wake up, I have a massive hangover. I definitely didn’t drink enough wine at that girl’s place to bethismessed up. So, I’m making an educated guess because I certainly don’t remember shit.
Midday light assaults me in my bed. That’s one good thing, at least I’m inmybed, always a good thing to discover after a blackout. No guessing where I am. I also appear to be alone, another plus. No need to try and remember any names.
Natalie. Now,that’sa name that pops back into my head.
I was on cloud nine after sex with her last evening. The exertion actually energized me. and I regret leaving her asleep in her apartment. I remember taking a shower to cool off, humming to myself and feeling like I could take on the world. I started becoming horny again replaying all our acrobatics from earlier.
So, when I got out of the shower and saw some texts inviting me to meet up with folks, I decided to go out to —
I obviously wentsomewhere.
My pants are lying within arm’s reach on the floor. Given the hurt I’m feeling, ‘arm’s reach’ is about as far as I can go at the moment. Hopefully there are some receipts I can use to reconstruct the night.
Let’s see...
A tab from OaSiS, a high-end 80s bar near Fifth Avenue. I definitely remember starting there. What else? Looks like another receipt, this one from Club Starr. I look at my inside right wrist. There’re traces of faded ink in the shape of an eight-pointed star. OK, that checks out.
Hopefully that was all... Though something tells me it wasn’t. One more place where incriminating evidence tends to collect…
My phone is out of juice though. I obviously forgot to put it on the charger last night before passing out. I set it there now and wait for it to get some life.
While I wait, I swing my legs over the bed and sit up. My hangover punches me in the face. I take a few deep breaths to keep from puking. I wish I could put myself on a charger right now.
Phone’s at five percent, so I turn it on. Okay, let’s see… I click into my photos.Ah.There’s a veritable slideshow’s worth of pics from the previous evening. Looks like I went to an after-party somewhere. In Brooklyn, by the looks of the apartment; probably Brooklyn Heights since I rarely go much deeper than that. I may benuevo riche, but I’m no hipster.
There’re lots of selfies with strangers. Some are dudes. Most are chicks, plenty of young ladies flashing me. I never know why they enjoy doing that so much.
There’s a photo of me with my head between a truly epic pair of fake tits… A couple where I have my pants around my ankles and I’m posing in ways that can only be described as ‘adolescent’…
Looks like I’m holding a glass of something or other in every picture. Explains the hangover.
To sum up, Your Honor — Last night I went out and made a thorough ass of myself.Case closed.
I stand up and discover that this hangover is seriously out for vengeance. I’ve probably only gotten about six hours sleep. I’m tempted to try and get a little more. Given the time I must have gotten home though, those six hours also means it’s almost noon. If I lie down now, I’ll havereallywasted the day.
To the showers then.
I manage to get in without falling over. I try to get a good steam going, though it does nothing to clear the fog in my head. So, I hit myself with a burst of ice-cold water... does nothing for the queasiness in my stomach. I must have partied harder than I realized.
I haven’t felt this bad in a while. Finally, I give up and turn off the shower.
Hair of the dog it is.
Wrapped in a towel, my hair still dripping, I pad into the study and pour myself some whiskey neat. I take a long sip, letting out a satisfied sigh.That feels better.
The walk back into the bedroom is much easier. I grab my phone again. Let’s see if it can tell me anything else about the previous evening’s carousing…
It rings just as I pick it up.Buddy Armstrongpops up on the caller I.D.
Ah, good old Buddy. His was one of the texts I’d received inviting me out last night. Chances are, I hung out with him, as I do almost every night.
Buddy’s a good egg. One of the few lawyers-turned-venture-capitalists I know who’s not an outright, narcissistic asshole. More importantly, he’s got an iron stomach and a will of steel. He could drink a vat of vodka and still ace the LSATs. In fact, it’s probably what happened when he actuallytookhis LSATs.
If anyone will remember what happened last night, it’s good ol’ Buddy.
