Every morning it taunts you out of safe, warm slee-
Wait. It’s Saturday. Why would you set your alarm for a Saturday? The first attempt at getting up tells you everything you need to know. Your vision clouds and your brain tries to escape, screaming, out your nose. You swallow feebly and manage to choke down what tastes like cotton soaked in rotten eggs. A second effort to rise goes better than t
he first. You’re not sure what carries you all the way to the bathroom, momentum or possibly divine providence, but you’re happy just to see the sink drain smiling back at you. The corner of your eye reveals your reflection: Head hung low. Shoulders slumped. Your weight precariously perched on two ragged, dirty columns of arms. It’s official: You got bent last night. Heh,“bent.” Now you get it. A whiskey swilling, make-up ruining, cigarette sharing, contusion inducing, PBR spilling, heel breaking, ass shaking, night of terrible ecstasy. It was a night that will require hours of spin control and days of Facebook scouring ensuring destruction of its evidence. It is a night that will be spoken of in hushed reverence. These nights come when the stars align and the planets collide. A night like the last would be too fantastic for even a Hollywood blockbuster. Generations live and die without never knowing the suffocating power of a real night out. You swear you’ll never dri-
Bzzt. You stumble back to your phone and check the new message. Your instinct knows before your brain does: party tonight. Your vision clears and your determination steels. Now you get it.
