God Loves a Drunk
I woke up last Sunday morning, absolutely filthy from head to toe, with a monster hangover, a pretty decent wound on my forehead, and considerable gaps in my memory regarding the previous evening. I remember going to the Rendezvous to see my friend's band play (missed them). I remember guzzling a number of drinks (getting obnoxious and cut off). I remember very clearly staggering out, falling down, and getting laughed at by everyone in attendance.

After that I don't remember much. I'm pretty certain I puked out of the car (or cab?) that took me home. I think I remember getting my keys out when I reached the porch. But I don't remember being outside the bar, who took me home, or what the hell happened to my head. It didn't take long to figure out I could not have made it home by myself. After calling my friends I found out they had nothing to do with it.

Maybe some stranger saw me passed out on the street and took pity on me, or maybe it was a cop, or one of the bar's staff. Maybe it was divine intervention (I've heard that the Lord loves a drunk). I guess it doesn't matter who it was. I'm not writing to say I've learned my lesson, or I'm changing my ways. I just wanted you (whoever you are) to know that I appreciated your help. When you're on the fast track to Hell, a good pit crew is important.