Y cito a Eurotrash, sin posibilidad, me temo, hacerlo al post exacto:
You know it’s been a good night out when:
You wake up fully clothed, but your bra is next to you, nestling on a pillow.
Your coat is in your bathroom, along with your self-respect.
You know you passed through Christopher St PATH station at some point but don’t remember a thing about it.
You find the business card of a toner-cartridge salesman in your pocket and you wonder if you snogged him.
You have to ring your own cellphone to find it. It’s in your pocket. Who’d have thought?
You have exchanged cryptic text messages with someone and you don’t know who they are.
Did you get a cab home? Did you walk? Did you fly? Did you talk to anyone? Were you embarrassing? Do bears shit in the woods?
There’s a faint tang of vomit somewhere in the air, but nothing identifiable in your apartment. Hurrah!
All your money is gone.
And you pawned your self-esteem to cover the taxi fare.
Your mascara has taken up residence on your cheek bones. Heroin chic, baby.
You have a large bruise on your thigh where you always have a large bruise on your thigh but you never know how it gets there.
They closed the last bar you went into. For good.
You woke up with a hobbit.
None of your friends will ever speak to you again.
Y nosotros que nos vamos a pasar el viernes noche leyendo a Lem…
