I woke up with coal-black feet, a scrape along my leg, a series of black and blues, and the sinking feeling that last night I got out of hand. Perhaps I should have heeded my doctor’s warnings not to mix my painkillers and booze.
There was power hour, and sweaty drinking, and spilling beer all along the kitchen. I know at one point I jumped from my friend’s Williamsburg rooftop to another with a girl who was as daring as I pretended to me. I crept in a corner of the neighboring roof to relieve myself and wiped with the folded up paper in my bag: a list of physical therapists from my doctor. I struggled back up the rough black-tar slope back to home base clutching my underwear and laughing.
This morning I found on my desk a pristine list of physical therapists. Which makes me wonder what I wiped with in Brooklyn.