Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Whatever happened to those two girls who wanted to come home with me, I’ll never know. To be honest, I’m kind of glad I didn’t take them home. Not only did I avoid the most definite risk of getting an STD from at least one of them, but I’m pretty sure my beer goggles were on overdrive near the end of the night. At that point in the night, my ability to discern attractiveness had degenerated to the point where the only thing I was sure of is that they were probably female. I can only imagine what they actually looked like.

The few remaining details of my evening aren’t totally clear to anyone, especially myself. No one was around to see it, and so I have only the shattered remains of my alcoholic memories and several obscure voicemails and text messages to guide my reconstruction.

My friends had long since left the club. They even apparently tried to get me to leave with them when they did, but I refused to go.

I wander around aimlessly for a few hours downtown before I realize I am going in circles. I give all my money to a homeless man, and end up trying to convince a few cabs to drive me home for free as a result. I puke, take off my pants because they are too hot, and end up getting into a fight with a giant, inanimate, storefront mascot of some kind. I’d like to say I won the fight but I don’t think anyone wins when you fight an inert cartoon mannequin.

I fall asleep beside a pizzeria, wake up and try to make out with girls in line at said pizzeria, get chased away from said pizzeria, and somehow find a couple coming home from the club that are kind enough to walk me home.

Maybe they feel sorry for me, or maybe they remember me from the club and see what has become of their fallen deity. I can’t tell you for sure, but I’m just glad no one that I know saw me.

As I finish puking into my office trashcan, head still ringing, I sigh at the tattered memories of the night before, and at the button that instigated it all. In some respects, it was the most awesome night of my life. But if that’s true, why do I feel so shitty about it?

Kaylee’s text is accurate, I am a total asshole. Not to mention a slut and a whore. Or at least, I was. I got greedy and drunk—a dangerous combination.

Kaylee was fun and cool and interesting. She was pretty and all my friends wanted to see us together. She liked me and wanted to be with me. Yet she has no interest in me anymore. But I don’t blame her. It was I who screwed it all up.

I text Kaylee an earnest apology, but I will never get a reply.

I look over the dozens of texts and messenger windows that no doubt deserve apologies too. Several open MSN windows appear to have been me simply mashing the keyboard.

JD to Steph: KfdfJHFRHr938vskjh vckqw2 1 8 yekjbhHKJHJKKJHJM>

Fucking button…

I still have the button, but I can’t bring myself to use it again. Like some kind of forbidden game-giving fruit, it almost has too much power. I don’t know if I could trust myself with it.

I guess I could say that I regret using it, but that would be lying. The night I wore the button was one of the craziest times I’ve ever had at a club. It made me feel like a rock star and gave me an evening I will remember forever. Nix that, an evening that I will kind of remember bits and pieces of forever.

But still, to this day I feel kind of bad about what I did to Kaylee—I don’t want to be that guy. And so as fun as it was, I don’t think I’ll ever use it again. I like to think that this was a choice I made to exercise great responsibility over the great power of the button, but really, it’s just a choice I made to keep myself from being an asshole… again.

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

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