So I woke up on Thursday morning, alone, with a hangover and dried blood on my calf. Upon closer inspection, I saw what appeared to be a human mouth bite, which broke skin.

I knew when I drank that Old Fashioned, that I was making a terrible, terrible mistake. Bourbon, so early in the night, after eating lightly and coming off a week of light drinking, is never good.

And then that pipe that was passed around later. In retrospect, that wasn't a great idea. But by the time I realized that, as I walked through a wooden beaded curtain into the red-lit stage area in slow motion like a film character, well, by then it was just too late.

Sometime after that I remember being crazy-like on the corner of Broadway in my socks, holding one knee-high boot in my hand, stumbling and knocking over a NY Press box and falling into the gutter.

I heard one of my friends say "I haven't seen her drunk like this in a long, long time" and I remember thinking I hadn't been that drunk since my birthday, almost a year ago.

They pushed me in a taxi, which I directed to take me home, but my friends rerouted it to another bar.

I gathered my thoughts, whatever they may have been at that time, during the ride.

I drank a diet coke and a water at the next bar. And then I left.

Somewhere in between all of that, someone bit my leg.

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