The room was strewn with chick-lit-blather-laden packages of female condoms, and the calloused, carcinogenic corpses of spent cigarettes.   The occasional scowling paperback of Impossible Dream and The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test peered abusively up from the archaeological fermentation of filth and featured an overly block lettered title that gleamed as if the publisher had intended it to be the definitive mark of coolness that would prove to herald the book’s entrance into an exclusive party hosted by pop culture.  Male protagonist rose pope-John-Paul-II-like from the ether of night, hindered by the Parkinson’s of hangover and post-debauchery.  What the hell had happened?  His bladder was brimming with the urgency of morning, blistered by the toxicity of urinary booze, a condition that prompted him to shuffle to the synthetic sanctuary of the bathroom.  As he grasped the exhausted barrel of his fleshy rifle, made temporarily impotent by four hours of thrusting and turgidity, he released a fiery, sacramental rope of piss into the porcelain confessional of the toilet.  After completing the religious exercises of waking up, he began to proceed into the hot, human bedroom. The mirror on the back of the bathroom door offered him an uncommon full length glimpse of his austere and uncommonly complete nudity, an atavistic nakedness that seemed to fulfill the clichéd description of a replica of one of those ancient bodies cast in marble. Gratified, he continued into the bedroom where he realized, the unfortunate newfound cognizance of his situation being betrayed by a sultry Northeastern “fuck!”, that he had no car, his partner had gone to work, he was located in the west eighties, five miles from his home, and his clothes were nowhere to be found, after having been torn off during last night’s impromptu, alcohol-tainted boning that had occurred in the park.