Actually, my liver got the last laugh by teaming up with my kidneys to remove alcohol from my bloodstream faster than I could drink it. Mother FUCKER. There’s nothing like going to bed on a crappy self-inflating mattress pad while all sweaty, sober, and lonely. Don’t, and I mean don’t go look at the fucking stars by yourself out on a dock as the Mississippi drifts by, idly investigating the tips of your toes with waves like tiny fingers.
Later, Paul and Doni and I sat together, and that was pretty nice. We saw shooting stars and maybe a satellite. Then we all passed out, the last ones left alive. Well, everyone else had just gone home because somehow the drunken motivation had slipped away from the group.