The light sneaking around my green curtains catches the shiny surface of one of my two glossy wristbands from the night before and sends the glare smack into my eyes.
After a few flickers from my eyelids, I find myself staring at my two dangling arms that hang only inches off my bedroom floor.
Apparently 2 a.m. Zack thought it’d be more comfortable to sleep in an L-shape with my upper body suspended off the bed and blood rushing to my head than to take advantage of my pillow-engulfed quarters after a night of drinking.
My iHome says Father Time is currently passing 10:30 a.m.
But my clock is usually 10 minutes fast. And we just did something with Daylight Savings Time – either entered or exited it; your guess is as good as mine.
Right now, instead of figuring out the time, I might as well just try to find the answers to a few problems from my high school Calculus book. Each would end the same way – with a shrug of my shoulders.
The first thing I notice – other than how freaking uncomfortable I am and the 30-second delay of my brain – is the amount of clothes on my floor.
I just cleaned the place like 14 hours ago, so why does it look like the Salvation Army threw up in my bedroom?
I roll over, just to make sure that all the pants and shirts on the floor belong to me.
They are never not all my own clothes.
I spy my iPod lying on the floor, among the carnage of clothes, still playing John Mayer’s “Continuum” album and almost out of battery.
It’s evidence that I returned home to loud music – one of my favorite post-partying past times.
The empty bottles around my shelves and the Malcolm X poster that’s half off my wall only adds to the Dresden-during-WWII look of my room.
My TV – which I thought was busted up for good – was on the black-as-night video channel.
It seems that not only is my relaxed self an electronic whiz, but also likes watching things better than “The Office.”
As I’m rustling around in bed, I feel my phone and my heart stops.
Oh gosh, who did I text and what did I say? Between the “low-battery” reminders, I appraise the damage.
No texts were sent to my parents and every message fits into the, “I’ve-said-dumber-things-sober” category.
In fact, with my above-average grammar and spelling, I’m half-tempted to give myself a pat on the back.
That is, if it didn’t feel like someone punted my ribs like they were Ron Burgandy’s dog.
After gingerly getting out of bed, I experience a fleeting feeling of pride when I survey the warzone that is my bedroom.
It serves as the last remnant of my last Homecoming.
A Homecoming that I won’t forget.
Or remember.
