Saturday, October 8

minor scalp laceration

So I'm coming out of this bar in downtown Boulder. I'm out with a kid from work, Beau, and a couple of his buddies. People have been buying shots, which is how I am three sheets to the wind despite having left home with seven bucks in my pocket.

(If you're one of the 16 people I owe a drink, rest assured that I am keeping a list.)

Anyway, I'm coming out of this bar, and the band was pretty good, and I am maybe a little bit too pumped up, and I try to do this sort of hop down the front stairs. Unfortunately, as nearly as I can reconstruct this sequence of events, there is a ceiling in the way.

I spend the next twenty minutes or so walking around Boulder with blood streaming down my face and a cigarette in one hand. We stop for a slice of pizza and some dude gives me a baseball cap. Walking back to Beau's place, we scam our way into a toga party by claiming that I just got jumped in the alley. This is not even superficially plausible, but the blood trumps logic. I wash my face in a sink and someone hands me a keg cup.

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