It's around the hours of seven or eight a.m. on New Year's Day. I've just stepped in from Webster Hall on what is the best New Year's Eve of my life. I'm drunk, but not that drunk. Very much functional, having stopped drinking around 2 a.m. But I've made it home. Well, not home, I'm in New York. And not even my New York home, our beloved Meserole Street that was home for ten days. I'm actually at my friend's house in Staten Island, NYC. Because for some reason, it seemed wiser to do that. Drunken logic was that it was sensibler to head home with friends who lived much further than make my way home alone on what would have been a fifteen minute journey on the subway, and probably around the same length by taxi. Why would I have been alone? Well, we were playing a game of last man stranded and I'd vowed not to leave the club 'til at least 6 a.m. (the night was going on 'til midday). It wouldn't have been my first time drunk and alone in a foreign country. It wouldn't even be my first time drunk and alone in New York. And I'd been just fine all those times. Alas, my decision was made.
As I entered my friend's, I was feeling proud. I hadn't been arrested for being drunk and disorderly in New York City at a time where black men were moving targets for the police, combined with being on a night where every bar had open bar (and when they say open bar in New York... They really do mean open bar. Any drink you want).
Money (do I even know how much I'm supposed to have on me?!), check.
Passport, fuc-, oh wait, I put it in friend's bag because I didn't trust myself to not potentially lose it whilst drunk.
Mobile phone, fuck.
I've done it again. Day six/seven and I've lost my flipping mobile phone.