Could've been the whiskey...

I desperately want to explain what prompted the powder junkie at the party on Saturday to scream, "Get her out of here" when he saw me peek in the door to summon my friends to leave. I want to explain why I thought I could wrestle him into the refridgerator in the first place. But, for it to make any sense at all, I'd have to get into the progressive degeneration of the evening, from the first cheers at 5 p.m., until the hair-of-the-dog the next afternoon.

I'd mention something about hauling band gear in the rain, dancing with umbrellas, thieving antlers, wet-willying and attempting a wedgie on a stranger who, to my great disgust, was not wearing underwear. I'd justify why I thought playing truth-or-dare was a good idea. And, express surpise that people were so kind when I crawled on their backs or chugged their drinks while looking them in the eye - why my friend screamed "Duck!" when I vaulted the soda bottle at the junkie. But then, you see, we'd just be back where we started...