I pondered my situation as I waited for the streetcar: do I call and apologize for showing up drunk to Jeanne's party, where I smashed her mother's Tiffany vase, attempted to molest her little sister, vomited in her washing machine, collapsed into the barbecue on the deck spilling ashes everywhere, kicked her cat down a flight of stairs --which in turn caused a fist fight in the foyer, screamed Nazi rhetoric at the top of my lungs, put out a cigarette with a Lichtenstein, prepared an entire kilogram of spaghettini and pitched the wet noodles at the ceiling, et cetera, et cetera, or do I just ignore it and hope the entire thing will blow over?
Maybe I'll just shoot her an e-mail, I thought, and boarded the streetcar covered with vomit, blood, ash and pasta fragments.
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