I remember the way the water soaked against the hem of my jeans as I slugged along the streets of New York. I remember the way my mother called me to tell me there was a pterodactyl scooping up fish out of our pond. And I remember telling her to lay off the hallucinogens and her getting angry and hanging up on me. I remember later, discovering it wasn’t an extinct dinosaur-bird, but rather your run of the mill turkey vulture. I also remember the way my insane mother chased after it with a broom saying she would kill it to protect her “fish-babies”. I remember finding a gay bar somewhere in the valley that had a dollar drink night. That’s about all I remember. For 20 dollars, not including tips you can get pretty wasted and maybe you can end up dancing all over the bar while hordes of gay men look up to you in disgust. And maybe this is what you remember because it is what you’re told after you wake up the next day on the floor of your best-friend’s bathroom with nothing on but your underwear and they are inside out. I remember all the times, waking up at my best friend’s house. In her bed, on her sofa, in her bathroom, turning to her and asking “What is it that I should remember?” And her saying, “If you have a hangover, you’re being reminded of enough.” I remember all the other times and places I’ve woken up on the brink of death induced by mixing massive quantities of vodka, whiskey and tequila. And I remember getting into the shower and sitting down and praying in a sort of chant to God, that I’d quit drinking for good if he made it all end, the head pounding truth of the life I was living. But I never did quit. Because where would I be without those mornings? Those desperate lonely mornings, where even when you wakeup next to someone you are the single most solitary person on the planet—driven to prayers of peace because you remember what you may or may not have been up to the night before. And more so than anything else, it’s those memories that wear on you. More than the drinking, and the troubles and the wasted money are the memories and the lack thereof. The whole charade can make you crazy in a way that alcohol only electrifies. So you start thinking to yourself, “Maybe I should quit drinking.” But you only say this as you are starting into your first drink and remembering what you did the last time you were drinking. By that time you are well into your first drink and on your way to forgetting, which is better since remembering is a lot like chasing your own tail—it gets you nowhere.