I have rules against going out before 10 pm. Nothing good happens if you do. You get drunk too early, you're shitfaced by the time you need to go home, do and say things you shouldn't, etc. I typically don't do shooters (save for shots of whiskey) and I'm not a catch-up drinker. All of this is to say, I attempt to be responsible, most of the time.
This past Saturday I lost my shit.
I was invited to play "bar poker" - $5 buy-in, five bars, draw a card at each bar, whoever has the best hand at the end of the night wins. We met up at 8:30 and were at our third bar, and five drinks in by ten.
I remember going to the first four bars, none of them were bars I frequent as I don't usually hang out in my neighborhood. It attracts suburbanites that wear Ed Hardy like it's their job, I'm not into it. And I'm not into "dancing" to top 40 singles. Nothing about my neighborhood really appeals to me after 10 pm Thursday through Saturday nights, but I thought I'd give it a go. I would not have had a good time were it not for the people I was with and the amount of shooters I did.
By 11:30 I was gone. The only reason I know this is because of the drunk texts the next morning that I had no recollection of sending. I left my friends around one after smothering one in lipstick and thought it was a great idea to walk upstairs to my apartment, grab my phone charger and bag, because I only had my wallet and my phone was dying (it's an Android, go figure). And then I thought it was a brilliant idea to drive uptown. How I managed to not kill anyone, myself, or get arrested is still beyond me. Feel free to judge, but know it's not something I'm proud of, but I can't change it and I'm thankful that none of the above happened.
Anyway, I drive uptown, park, but can't remember my friend's address and my phone keeps dying so, from what I vaguely remember I plug my charger into someone's porch outlet and eventually get to my friend's house around 3 am. By that time I'm more aware of what's happening. We end up watching TV and eating cereal and fall asleep on the couch. In the morning I can't find my bag, but I have my phone, my charger and my keys so I figure it's somewhere I'll find it later and go back to sleep.
I was wrong. We searched everywhere, closets, the basement, random storage areas and could not find it anywhere. From this point I can only premise that I left it on someone's porch. Fuck. This is terrible. Really terrible, but we both have places to be so we search for my car instead. It was parked a lot closer than either of us thought it would be.
I get home and find my apartment trashed. I managed to knock everything that could be knocked over, over, which also explains all the bruises I've found on my body since then. But I'm still bag-less, wallet-less, ID-less, money-less, so after sulking for a bit I head back uptown and walk the streets in about a two block radius around my friend's house looking on people's porches, knowing how creepy I must look to those passing by.
And nothing, except a pink post-in note with my friend's address scribbled on it illegibly.
Sunday ends and I can't sleep, so I clean. Subconsciously, I'm pretty sure I was punishing myself - my mother used to always make me clean things as punishment and at really inconvenient times. I'm terribly anxious after I lose things, not because of the credit cards or various IDs, but the totebag and all the buttons on it that I've been collecting from shows and elsewhere since I was fourteen, and the clutch I use as a wallet that an alcoholic, chain smoking, retired nun gave me.
I checked the activity on my cards and there was none, but I canceled my debit card just in case, and went to the DMV to get a new license. Afterward I had to drop some things off at my sister's, my sister who has never had a drink in her life and rolls her eyes anytime I mention my drunken stupidity, as she should.
Monday evening, I wait until it starts to get dark and I attempt to retrace my steps again, hoping that the dark may jar some memory of Saturday night. It doesn't and I go home and attempt to sleep again. Monday night's sleep was worse than Sunday's. I woke up around 4 am and fall in and out of sleep at odd intervals after that, by sunup my neck is in knots.
Tuesday morning I arrive at work in a hurry for my 9 am appointment, and I find my totebag, complete with wallet, cards and IDs in the back room, on the table where I presumably left it and at the front desk, where I clock in, is a stack of pink post-it notes.