Metalkabout a clean slate

At the stroke of midnight last night, you yelled, "I'm turning over a new leaf starting tomorrow. No more boozy nights! No more slutty women! No more wasted time being wasted!"

Then you did another shot.

It's now 11:28 on New Year's morning and you're still in bed with the sheets pulled over your head because it feels like a truck repeatedly ran over it last night.  Your breath reeks of that smell you get from the inside of the trash can after you've lifted the bag.  And there's something lying next to you. You don't remember bringing anyone home last night.  You don't remember much of anything at all.  But then, you've been here before.  Which is why you know the only way to end the guessing is to lift up the sheets to see what shameful sight is there.

You jerk the covers quickly. Nothing happens.  You tug once more.  Still nothing.  You pull with all your might, grunting to make some progress, but nothing happens.   So you feel around with your hand.  You touch a leg, a hairy leg.  Then a butt, which is hairy, too.  Then it hits you:  the bouncer from the last club you stopped at last night was talking you up big time. He whispered in your ear how he'd love to buy you breakfast in the morning.

"In the morning?" you remember firing back.  "What are you suggesting, my man?" you say.  "I'm  a guy and you're a guy and, well, my gate doesn't swing that way."

At least it didn't before last night.

Happy New Year, fella.

Here's to turning over a new leaf indeed, eh?