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Sunday, 12:03 a.m.

“Hey, bayyyybeeeee! I miss you so much. I think I said I might be home by midnight, but I just wanna say that I’m not there. I don’t…I’m not sure where we are now, but there was a beach that we had to run around naked on and an aquarium that was closed? I met some really nice sea turtles but I am not allowed to bring them home, so that made me sad, but it’s okay. I got their email address so I’m gonna keep in touch. And also I met Jerry Seinfeld in the men’s room and I sold him my car for five thousand dollars. But I think I don’t have a car, so remind me to buy a Jag, okay? It has to be a yellow one from 1979.”

“Pah! That was not Jerry Seinfeld! He said he was Johnny Steinberg! He never said Jersey Seinfeld!”

“ThatwasJerry Seinfeld, Eddie Can of Olleeeee! You’re just jealous because I’m better at Romeo than you!”

“Noooobody is better at Romeo than meeeeee!”

“Psssshhhh! Okay, Boomer! Check this out… ‘O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art / As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, / As is a wingèd messenger of heaven…’ Mic drop.”

“Enh. Good, but… ‘I defy you, stars!!!!’ Boom.”

“You know what—you know what—you know what—we are both super handsome and talented as fuck.”

“Yessss! ’Specially me, but you also, too.”

“Wait—did I call…Piper? Did she hang up? … Hey, where are my shoes?”

“Hey, Piper! Your boy canpahtywicked hard! I bow to him! I bow to you, Haircut!”

“If you ain’t first, you’re last!”

“Ha! I fucking love you, man! I fucking love this guy!”

“I love you, man! Hey, Billy Boston, have you seen my shoes? The ones from my feet? Wait, where are you taking?—”

Sunday, 2:17 a.m.

“Ohhhh Danny Boy! The pipes, the pipes are callin’. Hey! I’m callin’ Pipes right now! Wait. Is this on? Hello? Pipes? Piper? Now you, Dec! You sing the next one.”

“From glen to glen and down the mountain side!”

“Okay, together, together!The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling. It’s you, it’s you must go and I must bide…I am so sad. I want to go home. Piperrrrrrr!”

TWENTY-FIVE

Holden

IT ENDS WITH bUttS

Things fall apart. My dignity, for instance. The shattered contents of my skull. There is a demolition crew up in there with jackhammers, playing death metal at full volume.

My muscles. Every muscle is writing its own poem of protest. An entire volume of angry, aching verse dedicated to the consequences of debauchery.

My mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing on old gym socks soaked in whiskey.

Damn you, whiskey, you amber temptress!

And fuck you, Guinness! You with your thick, creamy head—so mellow and bittersweet on the tongue. Your innocent aromatic notes of coffee and chocolate have fooled me for the last time!

Anarchy is loosed upon my stomach.

The center cannot hold. Even though the center, it seems, is made of porcelain. I wake to find myself transformed intoa question mark, curved into the smooth, cold embrace of a bathtub. Am I alive? Yes. But unlike a legendary Irish warrior who refuses to die lying down, I live, totally unable to stand up. The rough beast of a hangover slouches toward my consciousness, waiting to be born. Daring me to remember what brought me here.

Whose tub is this?

I dare not open my eyes.