I've been sick. Ugly sick, nasty fevers, hallucinations. I'm coherent again, mostly. So, a post!

“There’s a party downstairs. Come check it out.”

“Here? In our building?”

“Yeah, Hard to believe, eh? We’re not the resident troublemakers. For once.”

It was Saturday night and I’d already consumed far beyond my fair share of Pabst and Crown Royal. Back and forth I drank, as one with no familiarity with the rules of alcohol and brain damage. How does that go? Liquor before beer, never fear… or was it… I can’t remember. Alcohol and caution do not mix anyhow.

I had already shed my shoes, socks, and pants by this point. I was stumbling around in my boxers and a t-shirt, belching, peeing every five minutes. (Yes, in the toilet.) When the invitation filtered upstairs, I decided I would brave the spiral staircase to the ground floor dungeon apartments to see what all the hullabaloo concerned.

A quiet European chap encumbered with the unfortunate name of Flavio was hosting a party that felt like a miniature version of my roommate’s. He had turntables and DJs, but the music area was just a corner blocked off by folding tables. His speakers were modest, and conversations could be heard over the gentle volume.

I strode into the center of the room, blinking, wide-eyed, shocked to be invited into the apartment of a building mate. I was convinced they hated us obnoxious loft-dwellers.

All around me people talked and laughed. I pivoted, eyeing one cluster of revelers after another, trying to imagine a smooth word or two to shoehorn myself into social engagement. Usually, when buzzed, I am quite gregarious. Not then. I just felt tired and lost. I sighed, peered into my nearly empty beer, and finished it. It was at this moment I saw a chubby girl looking at me with disgust and puzzlement. Not looking at me, but rather, towards my groin. I followed her gaze.

Oh. Right. No pants. I left, added pants, and returned again, satisfied to be once again among the clothed and civilized. I talked to a few people, but nothing spoken keyed any particular spark of interest, and soon I found myself wallflowering again.

I considered returning to the sanctity of home, where my playlist reigns supreme, where clothing is optional. When I saw another girl eyeing me with suspicion, again south of the beltline, I began to wonder just what in the hell was going on. Is this a fashion party? Is denim verboten?

Oh. Right. No socks or shoes. My ped nerves awoke. I could feel dirt accumulating with every step. My feet landed in tiny puddles of beer spittle, thousands of tracked-in flecks of mud, and the smear of both combined. All of this grime was adhering to my heels, and I was the only attending guest lacking footwear.

This proved to be the camel’s back broken for me. I could not hang.

I slunk back up the spiral staircase. I poured another shot of Crown, chugged a beer, sat on the kitchen counter, dipped my feet in the sink, and ran water over them until pink and white returned. One more shot, one more beer, and I fell asleep under an open window, with all my clothes on.

4:14 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm