She’s probably whispering.
I just can’t stand noise right now.
The cat yowls, then clucks, and I groan again.
Why can’t I find my ears to cover them?
Do I still have arms?
Where did my hands go?
They don’t hurt, so they must not exist.
Wait.
Why is my cat clucking?
I’ve never heard my cat cluck.
“Did you take my pants off?” Cricket’s voice is raspy and thick, and I have a sudden craving for honey.
I am never, ever,everdrinking again.
For all eternity.
Did I have three bottles myself, or four? Everything’s a little hazy. I remember talking.
I remember her boobs in an industrial-looking bra.
I remember that the script tattooed on her ribs saysyou are enough.
I remember having a dance party with a chicken.
Dance party with a chicken?
“You’re dressed,” she says. “Ohhh, I’m so glad you’re dressed. And I’m wearing underwear. This is good. I mean, not good, but at least not worse.”
The next horror hits me with a searing pain flashing through my skull. Why the fuck am I in bed with Cricket?
What did I do?
What did I do that I can’t take back?
How bad have I fucked up my entire life?
I bolt upright, and the gelatinous mess that was my brain yesterday sloshes upside down and inside out, making my stomach give a warning heave as the entire world tilts wrong.
I blink down at myself and once again have to shield my eyes.
Why am Ialsowearing a tie-dyed shirt?
I don’t remember changing.
And especially not into—fuck me, what the hell am I wearing?
Are these clown pants?
I am not—have never been—this irresponsible. Not since high school.
