35 degrees 8' 56 N 90 degrees 2' 10 W

Taking a look around the room, I notice the clutter and the gloom. I also notice that it isn't my room or my clutter, which is a bit disturbing. Waking up with the mother of all hangovers is bad enough when you are doing it in your own bed, but doing it in an as yet undetermined location makes things much, much more complicated. I have vague memories of the night before, something to do with peanut butter and whiskey, always a dangerous idea, and it might have been some one's birthday, or maybe we were celebrating the battle of Austerlitz? Fuck if I remember, and at the moment the why I am here seems less important than the where is here exactly? This becomes more imperative as I heard a soft snore next to me. Which at first blush is somewhat good news, at least I didn't just break into some other person's house and sleep in the bed, or did I? I suppose I will have to wait till my co-occupant of the bed wakes up and ask the awkward questions like do I know you? Do you know me? How do we know each other? Though that last bit is probably answered by the lack of clothing that we are both sporting. It would appear "in the biblical sense" would answer that particular question.

These questions only give me pause for a brief few seconds, I could do all of that, and get some answers that might distress me, or I could just quietly exit stage left, and let those questions remain unanswered. It is a remarkably caddish thing to do, but then again if I weren't a cad, I would probably be home alone in me own bed now wouldn't I? Exiting stage left is both a science and an art form, it also wouldn't be the first time I've attempted it. This time I do have enough memory to piece together this exit will be different than the last one I tried, but that doesn't mean it will be either easy or successful. I will have to remind myself to begin to ask the most important question of co-occupants which is "are you a light or heavy sleeper?" Try working that into the conversion over peanut butter and whiskey. Making that mental note to myself, I begin to take stock of my current situation, the only situation that matters at the moment. We can worry about the future of my investment in Chinese pork bellies tomorrow, if there is a tomorrow. For the nonce, I have to figure out how to get out of this particular mess with the least amount of disturbance to my otherwise ordered life.

Easier said than done considering my current state of undress. I gently take a look around the cluttered room, and offer a prayer to the wolf god that my cloths, or at least enough of them are close at hand to allow me to cover enough of myself to keep me from getting arrested for public indecency if I get lucky enough to make it outside without waking my latest playmate. Thankfully, one of us is a somewhat ordered drunk, and I notice my clothes in a neat bundle on a conveniently located chair. This might be easier than I had thought, clothes close by, playmate deeply sleeping, and sunlight crashing the party to light me the way out of the room. Perhaps gods (even the one of wolves) do smile on fools and children.  Graceful exits are for movie stars, and ballet dancers I pose no threat to either of those professions, and I will settle for quiet rather than graceful. Shoes seem to be an unnecessary risk so this exit will have to be sans shoes. Now just to figure out the least clumsy way to exit the bed, get myself clothed, and the hell out of Dodge before the owner of aforementioned bed wakes up. I mean denying someone the glorious sight of my Adonis like body in the buff is a cruel thing to do to anyone, but sometimes we have to be cruel in order to be kind. I am sure they will thank me later for not waking them to see the "show".

Just for my records, I take a look at my latest "conquest" or am I the conquered one? I guess that is a question that can be answered later, when I am safely home tucked into my own bed like a good, little boy should be at this time of day. All things considered, even though I haven't had time to consider them I am rather pleased. It would seem drunk me hasn't quite fallen all the way to single "A" ball yet. "Easy on the eyes" would be one term to describe the owner of the bed, which is nice. At least one of us had all that fun with someone pretty. At least I hope it was fun for us both, even if most of my fun seems to have escaped my current recollection.  Perhaps it will come to me later, once I make my furtive, but dignified exit from this foreign territory. I can't imagine what came over me to decide to play "an away game." Well, other than the obvious.  Smiling at a memory that I can't quite place, but am sure would be pleasant, I roll ever so gently out of the bed, and begin the sad process of getting dressed. I wonder about the name of my playmate, and if I was clever enough to put it in my phone as just the name, or was I too clever for my own good, and gave them a nickname that will leave me pondering who the fuck is this for days after? Again, another question that the answer can wait for me to relocate before it needs a solid answer.

Not being the actual monster that I have been made out to be, I ponder leaving a note, but what to write? I had fun, even if most of it is hazy? I'll call you later, even though I'm not sure of your name? By the time you read this I'll be gone, and don't bother to look for me? All these things are true, some more so than others, but none of them seem to strike the balance between rationalism and romanticism that is required (at least in my thinking) for this moment. Hallmark certainly doesn't make a card for this type of situation, and therefore I decide a wordless exit is the best exit.  We all want something beautiful to say, but this isn't exactly the time or place for that. Especially since I've yet to determine my exact place in the world. I can't even tell if I am lost because the bedroom really gives no clues as to its location on the planet. It would seem location will have to be (hopefully) determined when one makes it to the street, if one makes it to the street. The previously mentioned phone, once located, has been found to be a dead as a door nail, and will not provide me (or anyone else) a clue as to my present whereabouts. Pity that, I would really like to know where I am, it helps a great deal in order to determine where I need to be.

I whisper a somewhat fond, farewell to my host for the night, and tread ever so lightly out of the room, down some hallway, and in the direction that I hope leads to my freedom. Front door, back door, garage door, or dog door at this point any of them will suit my purpose which is to get the hell out of there before my host's slumber is terminated.  After a few tense minutes, I locate the back door (of course), and make my way out onto the street. Funny thing about streets, a lot of them look the same, and by looking the same they look familiar. It isn't until you find the sign post that gives you the name of the street that you begin to realize fuck I've no idea where I am or fuck I'm within a mile of home. This particular street's name need not detain us, I knew it vaguely. And vaguely was enough for me to know it was not a street I had any (other) business occupying. Whiskey and peanut butter work in mysterious ways, and ours is not exactly the reason to try to unpack those reasons. It was sufficient for me to get the laugh (at my own expense) to notice that the corner upon which I had stumbled was the one where we (yes that is an unattached pronoun) had went our separate ways.