Who Would do this? Why?

I woke at somewhere between 6 and 7am, feeling like a character in a noir murder mystery - a participant in an elaborate game of Clue. I hadn't yet pieced together who done it and where, but the evidence was all around me in a fully illuminated room; a mostly-eaten bowl of cereal on the floor beside the bed, the heat roaring in the eerie stillness, my clothes stuck tight to my skin soaking up the toxins slowly seeping from my pores, a dull throbbing in my head and an all-over acheyness that could only be explained by an attempt on my life. Someone had attempted to poison me. I felt like a modern day Rasputin, condemned for my influence over the Czar and the fears of my involvement in black magic. Surely a band of assassins had conspired to end my meddling once and for all. I knew I shouldn't have grown this beard. I quickly spotted a computer - still open but sleeping - beside me in the bed and understood there might be some clues as to what unfortunate circumstances had rendered me thus. But suspecting that the killers might still be at large, I decided to shut my eyes and allow them to believe their plot had been successfully carried out.

Hours later, when the sun, like an affectionate cat, nudged me awake as it purred and rubbed itself against my skin, I discovered more evidence. I explored the adjacent room and found the kitchen ransacked, as though by raccoons; a family of three cereal-boxes, one face-down, had been wholly cannibalized, and two others had been badly dented and half-consumed - clearly ripped apart by some sort of creature with claws and ravenous desire to devour and lay waste to anything in its path. Such voracity could only mean one thing; the pieces were starting to come together. Beside them, a bottle of almond-milk that had been bled dry. It lay completely motionless - a hemorrhaged soldier on hunger's battlefield. The thieves had even gotten to the chocolate! Who would do this? Why?

With ghostly memories swirling through my head like a thick fog, beguiling and befuddling, I remembered a man with a perm. I remembered a contraption I had been placed in - one which seemed to me like a kind of medieval torture device - in which I had been inverted; the blood rushing into my head, dark and toxified, numbed my mind. I remember strobe lights and the thick billowing smoke from a joint. I remember furiously shaking percussive eggs filled with sand to an incessant beat. I remember speaking to a soul singer and flirting with a girl in a bodega who was buying cigarettes. Then there was the Russian cab driver who, now that I think of it, was a little too inquisitive. As he drove me home he spoke, with great alacrity, about drunkenness and the effects it has on affect. He poured me a shot of what I had thought had been vodka, but now that I think of it, it must have been then that I was poisoned. That damned villain had taken advantage of my gentility and my trusting nature. He introduced a virulent poison to my bloodstream. As I exited the cab, the liquid beginning to run its course, he smiled wryly and said "it's on me," and then hurriedly motioned me to shut the door and allow for his immediate departure. By the time I had climbed my steps, my remembrance is no more.

The computer!

I woke the computer and found a note I had written myself while steeped in severe delirium, which I have attached to the bottom of this entry. As to who done it and where, it was me, with a candle-stick, in the bathroom.
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"The fact that this post exists is proof of failure. There should be a built-in failsafe on this machine that prevents this. It is well past 3am and I am allowed to write - at this time - unimpeded. I may be irrevocably irreverent; un-provokedly unabashed.

Cereal tastes good. Like nutritious flakes made from anti-puke pellets. Ugh, I am getting so much potassium right now!

I've smoked and I've drank steadily, the last 8 of the previous 24 hours. Some friends and I hung at Viracoccia for half of the evening and listened to a singer perform. He was magnificent and truly enjoyable to see. He had an intrinsic and sincere sense of confidence - a natural, for the type of music he plays. I nearly convinced him to come out to our after-party, but I don't think my breasts looked plump enough to lure him away from his party. There was a gay-man with two beautiful models on his arm; and a lucky straight man who happened to fall in their favor. After the performance, infused with the blood of Christ in a way only baby-bottles of Bulleit Bourbon can provide, they took to the stage and conducted a scandalous photo-shoot full of cock-grabbing, up-skirts and myriad other expressions of homo & bi-sexuality."