“Feh” #3

(Written on October 12th 2009)

Whoever said booze is a man’s best friend was – lying –. A single look at the empty bottles and the ill-colored lemon slices strewn around me is all I need to assure you the contrary. I say to nobody in particular with a very dry and foul tasting mouth: Tequila, you've done it again, you dirty skank…

Now sprawled out on my car’s back seat, I consult my watch. It is Monday morning and as if waking up in fetal position with a throbbing headache in an unknown parking lot wasn’t awkward enough for starters: my cell phone is dead, and I’m still in Friday night’s elastic party pants. Must I add that my shirt smells like anything except fresh? Sort of mimics the scent of a cross between fish food and old hockey gear, I think. However, I’d have to check to be sure, to tell you the truth.

Greasy McDonalds temptingly creeps up in my mind, and looking in my pockets for some change, all I find to help me piece the week-end together is a crumpled paper with edges fuzzy and frayed. I scrunch my eyes as I contemplate the piece of paper, but the printing is too faded to clearly read out a girl’s number or any other clue indicating my nightly whereabouts. My vision becomes blurry, and I start to distinguish the letters “F..e?...” and “h.” That’s all I get? “Feh”? What does that even mean?!!

Good thing I’m only two hours late for work and am not quitting to become a private investigator, because at this rate, I’ll never find how what the hell happened to me…