Last thing I remember was being angry that Janie was late. I decided to make it a double.
After that, nothing.
You probably heard the stories about me. Somebody like me. The guy who gets tossed from the bar by a pair of bouncers, the guy who is 2AM drunk at 8:30.
But for me, they are just stories that happened to someone else, some mythical character with whom I happen to share a face and a name. These nights are covered in black fog. I never, never remember.
I wake up to the evidence. That’s all I get.