Open bars may have free booze, but there are costs, there are always costs. Especially when it is a two hour open bar. The proof that I was fucked up, God, what more proof do you want? I threw away a comforter, a sheet, and a towel this afternoon. I woke up sometime early this morning when it was still dark to see the snow falling and to see myself sleeping in a gigantic puddle of vomit. Vomit all over the floor also next to my bed and I remembered none of it. Thankfully, I did not choke and die. But I did manage to sleep unaware in a pile of vomit if that says anything about how drunk I was. I threw the sheets in a corner of my room, flipped my mattress and showered all the yuckiness off of me before going back to sleep in a stinky room, so feeling like shit and not wanting to even think about cleaning up this mess. I woke up to hear Adele and her dad chatting this morning in the living room and I waited for them to leave before even trying to rouse myself, not wanting Adele's dad to think her roommate is a disgusting drunk.

Oh yeah, I also threw up on my new pants that Jamie gave me, that I am/was in love with. But perhaps worst of all, my phone was at the bottom of this pile of throw up for hours before I tried cleaning it, and no surprise, now it is not working. I have broke way too many phones. I am embarrassed to even take it into the T-mobile store because it smells nasty. [Hey Matt, do you still have that old phone?]

But wait, there is more evidence of how hammered I was. There is the obscene fact that I took a cab from the pizza place on Beford to my house, not too many blocks away. But wait, this is the real clincher here: I got kicked out of Beauty Bar. Um, how does that even happen? Good question, one that I am wondering this morning, wondering what I could possibly have done, broke glasses, yelled loudly, vomitted somewhere, fell - God only knows what embarrasing thing I did that some kind man escorted me out of the bar and once outside told me I was not allowed back inside.

My night had started out so lovely, though, you never would have predicted it would have ended with me passed out in a puddle of my own vomit. I went to a bunch of gallery openings in Chelsea with Joe, some of which I really liked a lot. After that, drunk, but pleasantly so, on a mixture of red wine and cheap beer, we went to Strawberry Fields and I think I exclaimed at some point that it was my favorite moment I have ever had in New York, because it was that beautiful, hundreds of people gathered in the cold night all singing along to Beatles songs. I fell silent for a moment during one of the big ones that everyone knew the words to, to hear all this people singing around me, and I thought that this is how I want to leave this world, surrounded by people on all sides of me singing songs. It was fucking beautiful how there were so many people there of so many ages all singing together.

After about an hour, because I was starting to shiver, we left, headed back downtown to go to Pink Elephant for the David LaChapelle afterparty that Gregg had told me about. And as if I had never even heard of the word moderation, I was downing whiskey after whiskey and yet not realzing how drunk I was, but man, this painful headache alleviated only slightly by the Advil I took, this burned out stomach, this is the proof that I was shitfaced. Toward the end of the open bar, I angered Gregg by telling him I wanted to make out with him. [Sorry Gregg, I would call you and say that except I vomited in my phone.] Then a bus was hopped (a bus?) and Joe and I rode down Fourteenth Street to Stache, and this bus ride is the last clear memory of the night. I have no clue what happened to Joe, what I did once there, if I drank more, if I danced, and wondering what it is I did to have gotten kicked out. All I remember is being out on the street and being confused about not being allowed back in. So I went to Nowhere, pissed in their bathroom and then headed home where a big mess was made in my bed, a mess I cleaned, but which I can still smell from out here in the living room and Antony is singing really pretty music and I am about to go to the bodega to get a coca-cola and some food that won't make me retch