A friend won a pony keg at a local bar. Only five of us showed up to drink it, so I was three sheets to the wind after my 15th beer. It may have been less, but 15 is a good estimate. It was about a 12 km ride home, and I took my regular route. I recall hitting numerous cars as they jumped out from their parking spots to attack me on my bike. Now, I remember riding up this massive hill on the way home, giggling like an idiot. That's fine, but there was no big hill on my way home. This means that I am experiencing Missing Time, where all the experiences between my two enchanted evenings have been lost, perhaps forever. The bad part is, the two rides were years apart. I am missing the Grunge Years, or parts of them.