I wonder what I look like to a stranger. More specifically, I wonder what I look like from a birds-eye view, seven stories up. Apparently from this vantage point, there is something distinctive and remarkably distasteful about me. Otherwise, why would someone choose to throw a full, glass handle of vodka down at me from a rooftop?
The weekend before last I was nearly killed dead—yes, “killed dead”—when a stranger threw a full gigantic bottle of booze down at me from a rooftop. [ . . . ] Continue »
