By Bret Liebendorfer

I had bright golden locks of hair shining under a red bandana that matched my sweatpants, Oakley rip-offs, a red boa around the shoulders of my mustard colored t-shirt and an enormous WWF championship belt. Michelle had pink hair that matched the stars painted on her face, an equally pink outfit consisting of a sweater, mini-skirt and spray-painted shoes, and white fishnets.

We departed from Hoboken for a post-Critical Mass, pre-Christmas costume party on the LES. In an after-work rush, we declined dinner in favor of cheap wine. But it was the pink bar drinks once we arrived that transformed me into the party asshole.

When Michelle accused me of spilling my drink, I threw the rest of it over my shoulder, drenching Wednesday Adams. When I couldn’t find a bathroom, I punched a wall. One of the guys tried to take me outside to cool off. He got shoved. It’s good it was an activist party—anywhere else I would have gotten my ass beat down.

I didn’t see Michelle, and figured she’d decided to stay at the party. Bitch! I had to make it home or pass out on the sidewalk. It didn’t matter that my coat was inside, and Michelle had my money and keys—Hulk Hogan needs no pockets.

But Jem had left me, and I was no longer the Hulkster. My accessories had been lost in the midst of things and my ripped t-shirt and crimson sweatpants gave me that Ronald McDonald-themed child molester look.

I needed to cross water to make it to Hoboken, and the Williamsburg bridge seemed my best bet. I’d had enough fighting people, so I decided to walk in the car lane. Wasted and shivering, I stumbled on like one of those wind-up teeth with feet. Half way across, a cop car pulled over. An officer got out, patted me down and threw me in the car. He drove me back to the Manhattan side of the bridge and wished me luck.

I wanted to take a cab home and then beat the fare, but I couldn’t get one to pick me up. I walked to a PATH stop where I did a sloppy turnstile jump in front of 20 people. Thankfully my roommate was home and let me in. I pulled a Johnny Depp, trashing my room and making sure the door was barricaded so Michelle couldn’t get in.

A few hours later Michelle was sobbing outside the door. I called her a bitch and fell back asleep.

My next memory was the way-too-bright sun. The blinds were on the floor with the rest of our possessions. The furniture was tipped over and the desk shoved against the door had been pushed back just far enough for someone to slip through. Michelle was asleep beside me. Her bright pink Jem makeup was smeared but she still looked beautiful.

It was one of those mornings-after where you swear off the drink for good, only to say a week later: “What I really meant last weekend was to not drink to excess.”

The hangover was bad, but the guilt was worse. It turns out Michelle had only gone back into the party to get the coats. (Her coat ended up being stolen.) When she came out and I was gone, she made it as far as the 2nd Ave. F stop, where she threw up and passed out with her face inches away from her own vomit.

I felt better about being a low life because I was in love with one.