Every time I drive past here I'm reminded of my ordeal that began one infamous night. I was coming home from a very drunk party here. This club was called Boondocks at the time. I don't know how I managed to get home, but seeing four stop signs lined up in a row made me think, "Man, I had better stop." I finally made it to Lincoln Park, parked somehow, and lurched all the way home to my apartment at three in the morning. I lived on the third floor of the building. Those three flights of stairs felt like I was going on the spiral carnival ride from hell. I wasn't even sure that I was on the right floor, but I was--I had a guardian angel. I made it to the bathroom, where I offered my evening's intake to the Porcelain God, after which I was too weak and too drunk to move. This was obviously my new home for the night, so I lay down and made a little bed for myself on the cold tiled floor, draping the toilet cozy around my shoulders for comfort and warmth. Sunny von Bulow had nothing on me that night. The only difference is that--thank God--I woke up. Actually, I'm not sure I wouldn't have willingly traded places with Sunny that morning, the way I felt.
--Alexis Bradley, phone clerk