Last Friday with Mandy was easily the drunkest I've ever been, and in my prime, I once did 26 shots of tequila. I forfeited a competition that day. Something about seeing a drunk guy and going, "Man. That guy is fucked up!" and then realizing it was my reflection compelled me to wave the white flag and induce something. But at least I remember everything about that evening, including my criticizing Dorkass' driving of my Jeep on the way home. Not so last Friday. Mandy's freakout was pretty much my last recollection. I woke up in my bed and assumed she drove me home.
"I can't believe I let you drive," I said to her a few days later.
"I can't believe I let you walk home," she replied. Well. At least that explains the bruise on my arm.
Last night, I returned to the dive bar in question. "You walked out on us Saturday!" the bartender crowed loudly, with obvious delight at embarrassing me. Good lord, and I thought Sober John is an idiot. I texted Mandy that we stiffed them. She was mortified. I apologized to the bartender and tipped her heavily. "It must have been Friday, though."
"It was the night you were here all flirty with that girl."
"Oh come on. We had a table between us."
"You started up there," she said pointing to the Place of My Last Memory. "But then you came down here to the bar and you were really flirty."
"How bad?"
"Well, you made out a bit."
"FUCK."
"That too, I assume."
I texted Mandy: It got worse.
What? What else happened?!
Thank god, a free pass. I'm letting that sleeping dog lie. And next time, her boyfriend is coming. Hopefully I can keep my tongue out of his mouth.