One Last Bender, Part 3

I am preparing for the night by listening to a mixture of Leonard Cohen and The Rolling Stones. I shall pick Natasha up at 10:00. I have spent the last two hours doing shots and resistance training. Resonating through me is a strange combination of swagger and euphoria. As I type these words, I pace like a maniac--it is impossible to sit!--and I perform invigorating air punches. Take that! Bam! Bam! Kaplow!

All my finest clothes, I have given away; all, that is, except my favourite suit. It is a simple but elegant black number I purchased on Savile Row. Two buttons, single-breasted, simple. It is so beautiful on its own, one can forgo a pocket square. To the untrained eye, it looks like nothing, but to those with taste, it is sure to produce a sensual elation.

Every hair, though casually tussled, is exactly in its right place. I shall not let Natasha so much as touch me. Indeed I plan to drop her the first chance I get because I have come to the firm conclusion that she is an enormous bitch.

I am late, but to hell time. At the moment I am slightly drunk--call it Level 3. I feel brilliant and wild--like a lion--both animal and king.