sh hooked up with an emo guy in a bathroom stall last night. some guitarist for the punk band playing at the bar he likes to frequent. it was sloppy and drunk, and admittedly some of the best sex of his life, but everything was so spontaneous, he didn’t even catch the guy’s name. instead, sh somehow ended up at a hotel rooftop pool after, his friends having dragged him there for another round of drinks. long story short, he shouldn’t have been swimming when he was: one, that drunk; and two, still fully clothed. one thing led to another, and a few bad decisions later, he woke with no recollection of how he made it home. and he’s pretty sure his fucking foot is broken. it’s a humbling walk (limp) of shame to urgent care where he sits for several hours with a pounding headache, fending off the urge to vomit at the mildest change in smell, waiting to be seen. he looks a mess—hair unwashed, dark circles under his eyes, skin dehydrated. but who could blame him? he had a rough night, and his foot is killing him. his appearance was the last thing on his mind. and as he rotted there, piecing together the fragments of his memories, he comes to realize his biggest regret is actually not getting mr. guitarist’s number. stupid, sh. fucking stupid. finally, he’s shown to his exam room, where he expects he’ll wait for at least another hour. but the absolute last thing he expects is for the doctor that walks through the door to be the fucking guy he hooked up with the night before. now his biggest regret is not taking a fucking shower. goddammit.