I find myself looking back on low points of my existence with a certain fondness if I feel those moments are truly behind me. Most have come and gone a long time ago, like when I was fresh out of college with little fewer prospects. Some are more recent though. This past Tuesday night immediately comes to mind.

I was logged into the A/V chatroom on a BDSM website while drinking scotch out of a plastic Santa chalice. Before that, I had a few Jameson’s at the Argus and polished off the last of a bottle of port after that. I shouldn’t have let myself get near a keyboard, let alone treat my fellow cyberpervs so the sights and sounds of me.

The room’s moderator tolerated my jokes, even the ones about grandmother killing and diarrhea gargling, but put her foot down when I tried to rally the troops to violate house rules by sending her private messages without asking. “IM the shit out of her,” I said. No one took me up on the offer, which is probably why I’m not banned for life.

Soon after that, I logged off and went to bed after some much-needed vomiting.

I’m a drunk. I admit that. However, it takes some very special circumstances to send me on the path toward this sort of freshman frat-boy stupidity. This was no exception.

Betty and our friend Malibooty chose my apartment as their party pad on Monday without asking me about it first. Never mind that I’m the one who actually lives there, their exuberant spirit of sisterhood was authorization enough. As for myself, I decided to avoid that scene and sought sanctuary at the bar.

When I felt too tired and liquored up to continue my self-imposed exile any longer, I went home. The women had mellowed out by then, but not before Malibooty had decided to make friends with one of my neighbors by shouting “Show me your cock!” at him from the back deck. I crawled into bed, wrapped the pillow around my head, and let oblivion overtake me.

Oblivion lasted until just after three, when my cell phone went off. Betty’s text messages from six hours earlier had just arrived. I woke up and saw my cat ripping a mouse to shreds. Unable to get back to sleep, I went into the office and checked that program I supposedly fixed. It was leaking memory like a sieve. And in just a few short hours, I had an appointment to be tortured in a dentist chair.

So you see, none of this was really my fault. And even if it was, who cares? Life is good now. My code works, my teeth are better, and the cat is content with kibble. I deserve to celebrate. Time for a drink.