Our other friends fused into alcohol around 8pm, and by midnight my brain had bolted into blacked-out bliss.
A newly acquired camera settled on the coffee table in front of me. I determined I would go through my phone's text message outbox and then the camera for clues as to the previous night's episodes.
I awoke the next morning on a couch curious how many of my brain cells had been demolished during the night's alcohol activities and contemplating how much more money and cleverness I might have command of should I discontinue my considerable consumption.
When I attempted to calculate how many brain cells I damaged by the alleged 1,000,000 brain cells killed for every 1 oz of alcohol absorbed, the numbers materialized as uncertain. I was as confident as to the number of ounces consumed as I was for who had ultimately ended with the camera I accidentally left on Peruvian mountains.
In my outbox I had texted two female friends: "One of my friends is aiming his shotgun at another's bare ass... in the house!"
I had as much recollection of this as I did my great aunt's funeral that I wasn't able to attend. My blacked-out brain was apparently under the impression that I had to lie for the amusement of my friends. I shook my head, decided it was safest to keep my phone out of reach when inebriated, and reached for the camera. On the camera I discovered a picture of precisely my text message.