My head is on something hard. Why am I sleeping on something hard? I peel one eye open.
Daylight is for cocksuckers.
Laptop. Why am I sleeping on my laptop? And...cat. MoLinder's cat. "Panther, mrrrrmfff."
He chirps and sniffs my hair.
I try to lift up my head, but my neck fails and my head smacks the laptop again. Shit. Passed out with the lights on, too. Gotta stop...ooomff. Doing that.
"Okay, Panther, ready? We are getting up on the count of three."
"Fuck you, cat."
"Seriously, I can do this. This is happening."
"Why do you have no faith in me, Pan?"
"I have had enough of your shit. It is time to get out of bed. Hangover be damned -- shit. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Shit. Wow. SHIT. Hey. Hey, Panther?"
"Why am I sleeping in my bed?"
My body slams upright and sweep my hands up to slip the hair from my face, leaving a trail of cash along the bed. I look in my hand.
"Why am I furiously clutching a stack of cash?"
I shoot out of bed, knocking Panther onto the floor and damn near stepping into a mug of soup.
"WHY IS THERE SOUP ON MY FLOOR?" I never eat my bedroom.
Is someone here? MoLinder's out of town. Oh god. Oh, god, fuck you, St. Patrick, and all of your days. I couldn't have seriously, I mean, there is no way...no. Thank god. Jesus fucking Christ, how the fuck did I get home last night?
"Wow. Fucking...wow." I pick up the mug of soup and carry it into the kitchen. Purse? Well, the contents are spread around the floor. Check. Keys? On the hook. Check. Shoes? Heels are smashed down. So I didn't wear my shoes home...which explains the soaking wet socks lying in front of the television. I'm still holding some cash in my hand...about thirty-five dollars.
"So I took a cab home. And I pulled out cash. Or I stole cash from someone. Either is possible, right? Wow. Wow. Wow wow wow shit-owwwww!" I stub my toe on the filing cabinet and suck in a breath. That hurt. I look down at my foot. Apparently I skinned my heel last night. There's blood.
I don't time travel when I'm drinking. I'll have little brown outs, sure, where I don't remember one conversation or something, but I don't just lose fucking time. I walk into the kitchen. There is soup fucking everywhere.
Burp. Tastes like soup. At least I ate some of it.
What was I doing on my laptop? Oh, shit, did I send out drunk emails? I struggle back into my room and open my laptop. It's on youtube. This video. I am awesome. Self-high-five. I check my email. No drunken email messages, thank god.
"Holy fucking golly, what the hell? Wow. How did I--PIECE OF SHIT PHONE."
I knew exactly where to go for that - because I always sleep on top of my phone when I'm drunk. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens that way. I wake up, and Piece of Shit Phone is under my ass. Because it rings, you know? And my ass is a natural muffler. Kind of.
Piece of Shit Phone is exactly where I thought it would be, under the covers. There's also a small smear of blood from my heel near the foot of the bed. Lame. I check the messages. Around 12:30 I told Gyna I got home. Okay. I talked to Phil at 10:30 - definitely don't remember that. I texted Schmee the same text message twice - that I was too drunk to drive - once just before nine, and once at ten. I don't remember the second one.
Network busy. Piece of Shit Phone. Go out on the porch. Daylight. Hot damn, it is wonderful outside. Okay, it's ringing. Gyna, answer your phone. You fucking whore, answer your phone. THIS IS IMPORTANT. I leave her a panicked message the length of her voicemail.
Okay, it's 9:30 on a Sunday morning, and she was with you last night. Let's be realistic here. She's asleep. PHIL. Call Phil.
He starts laughing. "What's up dude? How you feeling? Are you hungover as hell?"
"Dude, did I call you last night?"
"No, man, I called you. You don't remember? That's awesome."
"Okay. Okay, cool. How long did we talk?"
"I don't know, ten minutes or something. I wanted you to come to Estelle's but you said you were hammered and playing cards. And I think you had a cigar."
"Good fucking golly, that explains throat hangover."
"Maybe you smoked pot."
"Definitely no. Besides, that only happens when I'm fucking wasted and trying to prove how hardcore I am. Once a year."
"Awwww, Ross, babe, you know you're never going to be hardcore."
"That doesn't negate the delusion."
"So what do you remember? You said you were at some dude's house."
I rub my forehead. People are walking toward the church down the street. I should've put on a bra. "Clutter. I was at Clutter's. And there was booze. There was beer, and then there were white russians, and then...then I was drinking vodka and strawberry crush."
"I was smart enough to lay off the whiskey to avoid fighting. I think."
"That all sounds fucking disgusting."
"And then we talked about playing asshole, and then...I woke up with my face on my laptop holding a wad of money."
"Dude, did you send out drunken shit to people?"
"I don't think so, but apparently I was watching Orson Welles champagne commercials."
"Ross, you are by far the nerdiest cool chick I have ever met in my entire life."
"I know, right?"