September 22, 2018:
Tennessee whiskey, alas merely a fifth, not a full quart. Somebody cheapassed out.
Shoulder-length hair, very black, falling from a lazy non-part down the middle. Acne scars. Contacts, no glasses. Crooked nose broken by basketballs. Heavy lids, sideways tilt, leaning as always to the left.
Baseball jersey, gift, if I remember, from my future true love and her beau of the moment. White, with red sleeves and neck. The legend "DO DRUGS" on the left side above the heart, exactly where it belongs.
It was a college party which coincided, I believe, with my 19th birthday. Dwayne W. Orton would be proud.
This is why I'll never be President.