That Saturday

Woke up Saturday with nothing from Knaack but shadows. Looking at the photos felt like watching someone else’s night—I couldn’t tell if that was me or some lost twin who’d somehow gotten all the actual memories. Only proof was a crumpled ticket stub in my pocket, which honestly tells you everything about how the night went.

Here’s the thing: the less you remember, the better it was. That’s just how it works. Apparently when drunk I’m an endless laughing machine, kind of insufferable about it, which the videos prove, and which is why I’m keeping those to myself—not morality, just basic decency. There are some photos that survived.

I spent the night talking someone’s ear off. The doorman mostly, but really just anyone standing still long enough. That’s what drunk me does. The confused old guy on the tram, muttering to himself the entire ride back, was somehow worse than me being loud. So I was probably fine.

Next time maybe I’ll remember actually getting there. Probably won’t. But it’s a nice thought.