Welcome to my world.
It's a rainy Sunday afternoon, and I've been legally drunk for the past 66 hours. I'm in my SoHo apartment downing a midday chardonnay. My place is a single man's mess of empty wine, beer and scotch bottles. Scuffed cowboy boots, faded Chuck Taylors, wife-beaters of varying degrees of cleanliness, CDs, DVDs, old newspapers, creased magazines, half-read books, half-filled reporter notebooks, cap-less pens, cigarette lighters, and an ancient Swiss Army pocketknife are strewn about the living room futon, coffee table and hardwood floor. A pair of dirty shot glasses is near the stereo. I can spot a piece of stemware — which, amazingly, looks to be unbroken — under the TV stand. There's a bra in the kitchen garbage bin.