Being Kachou

The alarm clock is exploding my ears with a repetitive and annoying beep. It shows 6:00 am, it is Thursday morning, I wake up with a pasty mouth, naked with a wet sensation between my legs, on this rectangle that is still pitching that is my bed.

I can feel that there was a man in my bedroom last night, and I omen that a sexual act took place on this stage what my room. Unfortunately there is a big problem in this very romantic picture, my memory was damaged by a large intake of alcohol within a few hours, I cannot remember exactly how I got here in my bed but most importantly who was with me last night?

To answer these questions, I decided to check my cell phone, which probably contains significant elements to solve this case of Detective Kachou.

Step one - the cell phone - I check my messages received and sent. My last received message is one from a friend, "where are you?" Received at 11:51 p.m., so this tells me that I may had disappeared around that time, the first clue found - the end of my investigation is near, I can feel it!

Before anything else it is imperative that I send an e-mail to my boss to tell him I was struck by an imaginary illness - named "Flugover" which is a mixture of flu and hangover. My message was short but direct: "I'm sick, I will not be able to come to the office today" email that automatically circulates to the rest of the company, which gave me an ephemeral embarrassment feeling.

After this little lie that will allow me to finish my investigation - case # 230-, I am ready to dive into my memories and to dig into those 12 hours of showdown, but before I need the support of a double black coffee.

Step Two - chasing bits of memory - is launched.

Before continuing I’m checking my Facebook, to see if between last night and this morning I have been "tagged" on a photo. Unfortunately my search was unsuccessful, nothing on my notifications not even a small friend request, huge disappointment. But if I look closer I see that I RSVP to a Facebook event, like a flash passing from my left ear to my right ear my memory resurfaces. I close my eyes to better see my "flasback" - well it's a little kitsch I agree, but that mission is vital.

I see myself out last night in an "after work" event - networking events where yuppies go after work to drink and exchange business cards with a trendy house sound. But I'm not alone, I also see a friend with me.

I re-open my eyes and begin to scribble on a piece of paper my adventures - who knows it might make a great article -

I’m starting writing, I’m transcribing my life "With a friend we decided to go to an event in order to "networker" but mainly for dredging. Here we are in a Russian bar smelling good the 70% of alcohol vodka with an atmosphere of communist revolution, decorated with a bright red tapestry which could burn your retina. We are reaching, not without difficulty, to the bar to unwind from our hard day of work, started at 9am and finished at 5pm - life is so hard... I ordered a vodka cranberry for my friend - this chick - and a glass of chardonnay for me - vodka at 7pm is generally not so good for me. The tracking function is now enabled. - Well I am embellishing that story because otherwise it is pretty plain and soulless.

After this difficult memory reconstruction, I'm on my way to have breakfast, a little bulimic crisis would make an exceptionally well job with my stomach that is still fogged with alcohol.

On my way I meet a lovely group of 3 young men – wearing Bermuda – suddenly another illumination pierces my skull - another memory piece, quick Kachou close your eyes! I remember chatting with a man, then 2 more, and then 3 others - Oh fuck pass me a napkin and a pen.

Such a bewitched person I’m starting to write again - with some difficulty, because try to write on a napkin and a pen - "I have one's heart set on a mid-thirty guy, like 35 or 37, the perfect age. At 35 a man is already settled in - there will always be exceptions to the rule - his approach with women is less brutal and more subtle, his sense of style is quadrupled. Throughout the conversation - a deadly borring one - with that man, I realize that my glass is empty, so I find it the best excuses to let him speak to himself about himself and running away to pour more wine in my glass.

My spiritualism session was interrupted by the entrance of my mimosa - champagne and orange juice. I dip my lips into my glass and then my pupils started to dilate, the camera is zooming in on me - well there is no camera but just imagine how it would look like in a movie - which announce that a recovery memory process is kicking off –fasten your seat belt - I see myself flirting with guys and having drinks with them - I was very scared of this vision - they were all ugly. I’m writing "After two drinks on an empty stomach, I start to feel my inhibition rising gradually, as if my body was receiving an ejection of super power that it couldn’t handle. I intercept a conversation between two young men who were philosophized about the beauty of Toronto and the difficulty of meeting new people. I introduce myself to them and then discuss all together about our lives and passions, in a fit of a little princess I ask one of them to buy me a drink, his answer was clear and negative. Feeling upset, I take him by the hand and offer him a challenge: if I could get at least three drinks from unknown guys tonight he will owe me one.

The hunt begins, I activate my nasty charms, I am going to the bar, I'm starting on a single man, after two three – flat and plain - exchanges my reward appeared a glass of chardonnay. I repeated this process twice with a homerun all the time. I felt very powerful with the sex appeal of a porn stars from the 80s." The accuracy of this paragraph may be “comme ci comme ca”.

After my breakfast which turned into a magic spiritualism session involving only my memory, I decide to take a walk in a park near my place. A friend calls me on my phone and she asks me how it went last night, feeling triumphant - but a little embarrassed at the same time - I decide to tell her “yes I have managed to bring a guy home!” Super proud of myself - I'm a mentor and "role model" for her in terms of guys- But my answer is, of course, leading to an interrogation: "How was it? What's his name? Was he nice looking?". She gives me a vomit of questions that made me dizzy. My questioning and perplexed mine begin to appear so I decided to answer her: "Well, John, blah." I'm usually undemonstrative so she swallows everything - well played Kachou "give me five."

My memory is completely disconnected, I have fragments of memory but they are not in chronological order: I drink water – even drunk, I have good reflexes - I lick microphones - Huh? - I dance barefoot - I was probably wearing heels – I’m standing up on desks imitating a fish - Huh ?? x2 - I'm on a refrigerator trying to be like Beyoncé - but why? - I put myself in pajamas - t-shirt and flannel pants - then nothing, total blackout.

As a black veil covering my eyes and heart my thoughts, I remember so little, I think that had an intense and orgasmic moment last night. These five glasses of chardonnay have sucked all my memory system. I concentrate to at least remember his first name - and potentially his face - but nothing, I'm desperate not to remember.

Suddenly my phone vibrates under my pillow, which created an intense cerebral shock "Hi, I Had to put you in your bed yesterday Because You were sleeping half naked on the couch at 11.30pm, I Took the first t-shirt and pajama pants I found, I hope you are OK." It was my roommate. ... Emoji: sad face and eggplant.

The moral is to be too captivated by the effects of the alcohol, which might make you think you had a passionate and torrid affair with Kanye West.