I was high as usual.

I had promised to quit drinking and so I did for the last ten days.

But last night was Thursday night and Fridays are off. I was tired after a hard week of doing nothing creative.

After the second bottle of the shit Beaujolais they served me was half emptied, I understood that I was drunk. I asked for the check, yet I was not that intoxicated to let the Filipino waiter to cheat on me.

I did not have to argue, he simply thought I was too drunk to understand. He returned the correct change and mumbled something like an apology which sounded to my ears like you-son-of-a-bitch-you are not that drunk.

The flash lights were playing together with the oriental music. The Lebanese manager tried, for the third time during the night, to sell me a girl. I refused politely and tried to keep my track steadily to the door. The joint was cheap but decent, for the rest.

I should have turned from the hotel lobby to the left towards the main gate to catch one of the taxis waiting for lost souls like myself. Instead I turned to the right.

I shouldn’t, I knew, but the alcohol was now governing a greater part of my brains. I was feeling brave; tired, exhausted but brave. It was neither the first nor the last mistake in my cheerless life…

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