Even the blanks filled in later by the marvels of digital photography ceased to illuminate the memory clearly. Once real details emerged, days later, my vision of manifest destiny sharpened. It wasn’t just the vision of grandeur and cheap thrills, which are always in place as a Basher, but it was something more, something more meaningful, as if my soul opened to the sound of sirens, or allegedly Frank Sinatra.
I guess it was an important realization, powerful, like when the Gods appear vividly on a disastrous bender. I probably knew what I needed to do. The competition is fierce, yet it isn’t any worse than those that succumb to my beer pong prowess. If you put your mind towards an achievement, work hard, you will always win.
I dove in without caution because it was my birthday on a Saturday night, the night of champions. Within moments an adornment was pilfered.
Wouldn’t be much of a stretch to claim the title of Happiest Man on Earth that evening. I then became inundated with too many leads at once, a blessing disguised by thievery when you don't remember any of it. To feed off some spoils to the usually unlucky, I tossed a few bones for Don to chew on.
The pictures say he was handling it. Those split seconds never lie, much like you know all is well when you manage to drag the Murphy-Darling sisters across the street for partying after Del's.
Wish I remembered. This evidently led to breakfast back at 
Like Ingrid, I wish they served that dish daily. That's what I was probably thinking during the bout with blackout drunk.
Having no memory is such a waste, and seeing the sunrise after a Bash-A-Thon doesn’t usually register right. I’m normally overcome with traces of panic, veering off the deep end knowing every sane person is asleep, with the exception of me and my motley fools.
Cliff, Bobby and I stumbled about, mumbling nonsense to anyone who’d listen, tracking the adventure via camera while blacked out. We were experiencing cranial failure, we weren't even really thinking anymore. I faintly recall that we hit our cell phones hard in a bid to lure out anyone willing to witness fine debauchery crossed with utter stupidity. Jade was the first victim of our fiery trail of dumb.
She'll never be the same. I hope she accepts my sincerest apologies. The same goes for Jenna Wade, who I apparently couldn’t stop touching.
I can only imagine the things that spilled out my Captain Morgan breathed mouth. I heard from her unsolicited days after, so I guess all is forgiven. Jenna’s friend Kristin Shepard stuck around from breakfast until well past lunch, a feat which earns much respect on a hungover Sunday.
Kristin confided who she’ll be voting for in the presidential election. “Floyd Sanders,” she said, “because I believe in you, I might even love you.” She had been there the night before, with the sultry cheer, showing support before my plunge into the abyss of amnesia.
They would both make fine First Ladies.
I probably began weighing the probabilities of making polygamy legal when elected president. My conversation probably came along coarsely with oodles of drool. Yes, my birthday celebrated loving one another, something the world could use a little more of, maybe a lot. That fact was magnified by confirmation of score taken down by Don, circa 2pm.
By hour 19 I appeared to lose steam. The downward spiral was acknowledged when I had Chinese food delivered to Del's. Then the hallucinations began.
Around three I wandered off without saying goodbye. To cap off my legendary birthday, Lucca was in the last picture taken.
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