Dear party host,

Thank you for your generous invitation last Saturday night. I always seize the opportunity to drink alcohol among friends. And strangers. Allowing me to consume more than I can handle for contributing a mere bag of ice is foolhardy on your part, but you knew what to expect.

I love board games that require hollering and gesticulating, and agree that if was a good way to start us off. It was competitive way for the lot of us to showcase our expansive vocabularies.

Things got hazy after the fifth game. Next time I'll decline the marijuana. I felt dense and feverish after that pipe and I had trouble separating my foreground conversation from the background babbling of other revellers. All sound became a tidal wave of inseparable noise, a cacophony of firecrackers that ricocheted inside my ear canals. The result was that I frequently asked people to repeat themselves and I consequently came off as some sort of stewbrained imbecile with a balance problem.

My vision got fuzzy after that. I remember placing myself in front of your new roommate's computer. I playlisted a lot of Clash and Tupac, all I could find agreeable. Thanks for the veto. Things always go south when my selections are allowed to play. Blood spills, people riot, and I get trampled. You may have saved my life. We'll never know. I stand by my statement that the Beastie Boys are nasal and clumsy.

Shortly after I misplaced my ability to complete a sentence or walk a straight line, a bunch of ecstasy addled party heroes strolled through the front door. A dozen at least. Some suckled pacifers. I whored for one girl's camera and tried exchanging websites with her. The red ink on the torn cardboard coaster was blurry and dancing. I tried to ask her what her site name meant, but I must've started reciting backwards Ewok poetry because she said I was too fucked up to possibly comprehend. "Oh. Yes. Shit." I went away.

The rest is a blur. I know I was groping somebody I should not have been. I wonder if she's the one who left this 3 inch gash under my right nipple. She said the next day that she thinks I'm depressed and need some good pussy. I ignored that. At that point I didn't know about the injury and thought somebody had been pinching and twisting my chest. "My nipples hurt. What the fuck?"

I went home. I discovered the strange injury upon undressing for the shower. If not her fingernails, then what? Maybe I fell on something sharp. Or got attacked by one of your rabid animals, party host. Did some mad freak swipe at me with a razor? Hopefully I'll never know. If it infects, my nipple may turn green and fall off, and I'll never be symmetrical again. I'll pay it special care. I'll bleach my chest when I get home tonight to sterilize any bacterial goblins infesting my new crevice.

All together it was a fitting tribute to Jesus. Thanks for a good time.

With regard and appreciation,
Steve 9:26 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm