It's 1AM

And I have no idea where I am.

I am in New London, New Hampshire. And if you gave me a map I sure as fuck couldn't point that shit out. Cortez himself with a fucking map, compas, gps, and a 12" doublesided pleasurator couldn't find this place. I drove through at least six other towns from the highway that I didn't know where they are. I was somewhat convinced I was going to hit a midnight pedestrian and be catapaulted into some sort of new england Stephan King horror story. It's been a twelve pack since then. So once again, for the however many times this week, I'm drunk and I don't know where I am.

I'd relate to you the stories of my drunkeness over the past week except one fact prevents me from doing so. For only the second time in my life, I blacked the fuck out. One of my friends is convinced I was roofied. But given the all male company of the situation, I would like to leave that 6 hour portion of my life a mystery. I'll let you in on a bit of it. I woke up. The screen to the apartment I was in was kicked out 6 feet clear of the window, the bottle from every single beverage we had consumed that night was thrown out in the snow, there was a unusually large pile of vomit on the carpet and I had no idea where I was. Trust me, this was a reoccurring theme of my spring break. I have still yet to find out what happened that night. I assume it was me who booted on the carpet, but the kung fu'd window, trophies, and scores of crayons is definitely a mystery. And I think I'll leave it at that.

If there's one thing I've learned this week, it's that chicken wings and Guinness are a combo that tastes like golden plated extasy firehosing from the teat of awesome. I cannot describe.

My hostess just passed out.

I should bust out the yellow pages to find who I'm going to pay as I guide to get me the fuck out of here in the morning.

My wingman abilities are second to none.

And I want a fucking eight-figure karma check for it in the morning.

That is all.