I'm not built for this kind of thing anymore; the excess, the indulgence, the madness. The weekend whirred by at an alarming pace, hastened by the absence of a clock. I'd forgotten my phone at home for the entirety of a day, and boy did I get lost. It's amazing how fast time will run when you let it.
A piece of priceless advice: don't drink more than 2 mimosas at brunch on a Saturday. Once you go hurtling over the second and grab at the third with lecherous giggle and a feral grin, well dear sinners, your are in the hands of the Drink - a god who is always angry on Sunday.
Waking with pink elephants pirouetting on your skull isn't the easiest way to rise. In fact, it's one of the most painful. The pounding stampede, how mercilessly it tramples over peaceful thought, sending violent vibrations down into your stomach as tectonic plates start to shift, and then, before you know it, you have an eruption on your hands - sometimes quite literally.
The worst part of all is that there's no known cure. You must assume a horizontal position and rot, like a sweating mime playing the part of a poisoned dog. If you partied hard enough, you'll likely have little memory of what you'd said or done, and you'll lie and wonder who you may have offended or where it was that you lost your hat; how you got home. Oh how you'll swear you'll never get meet those elephants again, never oblige their trumpeting call. Until of course, you do.
The only thing I remember for sure is my interaction with the bouncer. I had excused myself with some friends for a breath of fresh air and some quiet conversation in front of the saloon. Upon seeking reentry the doorman asked me for identification. Surely he'd seen me walk past just moments ago. Was this a joke? A test? This was the test - a showdown. I looked at him and he looked at me. As we stared at one another I have the distinct memory of a wispy spaghetti western refrain playing faintly in the background. A tumbleweed may have even blown by. A bead of sweat rolled down my grizzled face and I saw his fingers twitch nervously as he awaited my next move. Don't just stand there and sweat, I told myself, draw! I plunged my hand into my pocket and in a flash my wallet was out in the air. With the help of hours of heavy alcohol consumption I was able to experience the scene in slow motion. Carefully executing each move I was certain I had him outmatched. With the wallet pressed firmly into my right hand, my identification was nearly ready to be presented. I had him right where I wanted him. I glanced at his hands and saw him lifting the flashlight, his thumb moving toward the button. I had to be quick. My left hand postured like a cobra and lunged fiercely at my California driver's license. Victory, I thought. But then, disaster struck; something was wrong. My hand misjudged the distance and fumbled, my fingers crashed against the wallet like breaking teeth and clumsily latched onto the credit card. Unable to stop its momentum as it ricocheted away from me, I watched in horror as my hand delivered the credit card to my adversary. I saw the imperious smile smear itself over the bouncer's lips as he pressed the button and discharged the blue bullet. Gunsmoke. The sulphuric smell of defeat; the death of revelry.
"I asked for your ID brother."
"I know, I missed; look, here it is," I said, with my flaccid snake-tongue.
"I'm sorry, you're done here; you can't go back inside."
BLONDIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE
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