All of the time I’ve spent watching procedural crime shows has really helped me put together the details of my weekend binge drinking.
It’s like the start of CSI. Something has happened but I am not yet clear on what. There are vauge hints. The coffee table has been dragged into the kitchen, There is a bruise across my ribs, My wallet is empty save for a bar receipt from the Tunnel Top. A string of events stretching back to my doomed Friday sobriety that spools out across Saturday and Sunday leaving a gore smeared wreckage in it’s wake. Now if I could only figure out what those events were.
Crime shows have taught me that interviewing witnesses is essential. Last monday I messaged my friend Ali, a fellow participant of an excellent Sunday Funday pool party. She would have the information I needed to fill in the gaps between backflipping into the hot tub and waking up.
“I need to know three things.” I began. “One, did my tit fall out? Two. Did I lick my contact lens and put it back into my eye? Three, Did I weep openly on public transportation?”
“Yes to all three.” came her reply.
Technology also plays a role in crime solving. By checking the call list on my cell phone I get an idea of who I was out with, who I attempted to have sex with and who I called in a different time zone early in the morning to tell about the martini I was having. A quick glance at the logged Facebook chats records what was on my mind at the time and also provides the list of people I need to apologize to. This is essential. How can you apologize for calling someones girlfriend a hooker if you don’t know who the boyfriend was? See? Elementary my dear Watson.
But let us not forget the importance of physical evidence. For example, The coffee table is in the kitchen, There is a smear of blood on the doorjamb, two magnum condoms are strewn across the floor and one of the carpets is hanging half off the bed, there are tortilla chips on the sofa and the TV is set to VH1.
What happened after coming back from happy hour?
I stared at the detritus, picked up one of the unwrapped condoms. Did I get laid last night? No. Impossible. They hadn’t been used for that and I would have woken up next to someone… I dragged the rug back to it’s place in the living room and stared at that. If just one piece of the puzzle falls into place then the rest will follow. I put the coffee table back on top of the rug and set to scrubbing the blood off of the door and got windex in the gash on my thumb that I somehow hadn’t noticed.
Then it clicks.
I had two long island ice teas at Sugar Bar, came home convinced I had a bottle of wine hidden on top of the cabinets. Dragged coffee table into kitchen to stand on. No wine. But then I wanted natchos. Cut my self while attempting to slice the cheese and slapped a hand on the doorjamb in despair. Ate natchos while watching TV and see an ad referencing Cleopatra. Wonder if I could recreate the scene where she rolls herself in a carpet to be presented to Mark Anthony. Drag rug into bedroom and attempt. Fail. Fall off of bed and knock over decorative box containing condoms left by old lover. Hold magnums in hand and mourn the loss of said lovers large penis. Move on from self pity and wonder if the condoms would fit over my entire leg. Attempt twice. Fail. Pass out.
Granted it’s not as entertaining as watching an episode of Special Victims Unit where some one is raped and set on fire but it’s close.