Draft 2Posted on September 18th, 2007 after 5998 miles by Dean Croshere.
You’ll have to forgive my indulgence here. I talked with one of my friends back home and found out that this opening isn’t as effective as I had hoped it would be. I’m going to mess with it a bit here. Is it clear what I’m trying to get across? Can you figure out what happened?
This isn’t right.
My hand is damp, cold: clammy.
I’m a little dizzy. Disoriented.
Clink. I heard that. Barely. My ears are ringing.
A dark stain appears. It runs down my shirt. My shirt… wait, that’s not my shirt.
I’m wearing it, but it’s not my shirt.
I step forward a bit. Ungraceful, not purposeful.
Crunch. I definitely heard that.
The deep bass ripples through the air again.
I step, slightly after the beat.
The floor is wet. Covered in glass.
I start to raise my hand towards my mouth, to take a drink.
That’s the problem. My hand is empty. It wasn’t a moment ago.
I’m not that drunk. Am I?