Some of my most outrageous nights I can only believe actually happened because of corroborating evidence. No wonder I’m famous for partying! The ultimate party, if it’s any good, you can’t remember it. You get these brief vignettes of what you did.
“Oh, you don’t remember shooting the gun? Pull the carpet, look at those holes, man.” I feel a bit of shame and embarrassment.
“You can’t remember that? When you got your dick out, swinging from the chandelier, anybody up for grabs, wrap it in a fifty-peso note?” Nope, don’t remember a thing about it.
It’s very hard to explain all that excessive partying. You didn’t say, OK, we’re going to have a party tonight. It just happened. It was a search for oblivion, I suppose, though not intentionally. It’s just the convolutions I go through just to not be me for a few hours.
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