I can have a hat party, too

Bleary eyed, I strained to look at my cell phone. 11:12. It's so quiet. Oh, a text message from Clay. That's nice of him. I tried to imagine him waking up early as he did this morning. He's now working the streets, dealing with the tourists. That's shitty. I turned over a couple of times, trying to think what I need to do for today before rehearsals at 4. I unceremoniously rubbed my pelvis. Not my underwear. I didn't have to strain to remember. Natalie's panties. I smiled at the thought of waking up in a hot girl's panties. I couldn't really churn anything worth muddling in bed for so I heaved myself up. The room rippled in my outer line of vision. Too much Jim Bean, Cindy, too much Jim Bean. I instantly remembered my little sick experience in the bathroom a few hours prior. Embarrassing. I opened my slightly ajar door and ventured out. No one in the living room. No one in the other room. Sofa is now unoccupied. They've all left. I stumbled around some more. Jim Bean on the coffee table. Beer bottles and shot glasses vying for space on the kitchen counter, and a more vast amount existed in the living room. A pair of gorgeous earrings laid among the beer, and its matching bangle lived in another ecosystem a couple of feet away on the side table with my records. Charlotte's camera sat in the lee of the coffee table on the floor, and I counted sweaters and scarves that had never belonged to me. And hats. Hats everywhere! My hats, Charlotte's hat, hats. That's right, we had a hat party. I ran into my room, and grabbed as many hats that I can. And we played spin the bottle. Everyone pounded me to the floor with their kiss last night. Boondock Saints. Cigarettes matches steamrollin' shot shot shot. As I cleared everything away, methodically, purposefully, I started finishing the bowl that got started last night. This is beautiful.