I woke up cautiously, one bleary eye at a time, cracking open like iron doors nearly vacuumed shut by centuries of rust. There was my misbehaving phone, my rings and watch on the night stand, my keys. And there was my bare chest spilling over the blanket’s edge. Oh no. I knew I’d acted a total fool last night and the nakedness was not a good sign. My head still spun from the shots a friendly bartender had slung my way between pitchers of shitty beer and my stomach ached from the food I…

Here’s how I know I’m still alive (despite a wicked hangover that’s making a bullet to the brain sound real good at the moment): I’m still making mistakes. I pick the wrong guys or the wrong goals or the wrong whatever and pursue them single-mindedly until I get what I want, success is no longer an option, or my goldfish attention span wanders to something else. Then something comes along to slap me back into sense: a cold, sobering morning that reminds me I’m not eighteen anymore and can’t…