When I woke I stepped out on the balcony and walked over some broken glass and looked over the edge to see Betty face down in the pool, bloated and pale, still wearing her party hat and I lit my cigarette and went back into the house. Eric was still asleep at the foot of the bed. My bathrobe smelled like smoke and had that unmistakable tangy hint of vomit. Luckily enough, my sense of smell was so destroyed by the Columbian whirlwind last night that my house could be on fire and I’d never smell it. I carefully stepped over Eric who, upon closer inspection, might not have been breathing, and opened the bathroom door. I found a fresh beer in the sink with some toothpaste spit on the side which I washed off. I opened the beer; the lukewarm flat piss lit up the pleasure sensors in my brain like flares at the scene of a horrible rainy accident. I shut off the light to the bathroom as I exited, forgetting why I went in there to begin with.