I awaken in a party in the plain, yellowish apartment of my friends Lynn and Eric, from a couple decades ago. I'm confused, not sure if I'm drunk, not sure if I've been passed out for an entire day or just a few hours. It's dark now, late in the night, the apartment is a mess, the party is over, and Lynn and Eric are going to bed.

I get ready to leave, but I can't find this book of mine called "You: The Owner's Manual", and I ask them about it. In a pile of books on the floor there is a book with the same name but it's a different one, some later and larger edition. No, that's not mine.

I'm not sure if I find the book, but then I go out to my car, but I'm not sure if I should drive because I'm not sure if I'm drunk. I think I only had like one drink and one shot, or something like that, so I should be ok, but I still don't feel right.

I get into my car, with somebody, and the radio is playing some sports show, but the key isn't in the ignition. Somebody - perhaps Eric - is in the passenger seat, and we discuss the fact that the radio shouldn't be on if the car isn't on, but I don't even have the key. It's confusing, but then I realize this isn't even my car, I got into the wrong one.

But my car isn't here. It has been stolen. I'm right in front of my house, by the post office in Garden Home. I'm sure I left my car parked here, but it is gone. I may have left it unlocked, but I guess Toyota Highlanders are pretty easy to steal anyway.

The house doesn't look like mine, but it should be. I'm confused. The gate doesn't look familiar. It has a padlock on it, some very cheap thing that looks like a toy. On my key ring I have a matching key, and I unlock the lock, so I guess I live here. Through the gate I come to a courtyard. It has a barbecue, and I'm certain I don't have such a barbecue. And a table, with six place settings with candles and the remains of meals as though somebody just got up. No, I'm sure this isn't my place.

Then a girl comes out from the house, topless, but one of her breasts has been removed by surgery, leaving only a diagonal scar, and the other is practically nonexistent. For some reason I'm on the ground looking up at her as she talks to me, and I sneakily take a glance at her crotch, clad in tight yoga pants. She notices that, and tries to convince me to have sex with her, which I don't want to do, but I do caress her one existing nipple, which is down low and to the side, in an unusual place.

The next day, I'm walking along Multnomah Boulevard toward the Plaid Pantry with Susan, mentioning to her that my car was stolen and is completely gone, and wondering what to do. I don't think insurance will pay for it, I'll just have to buy a new one, I guess. I think it should turn up eventually, since they wouldn't be able to sell it without a title, maybe part it out or something.