Happy 29th Birthday. Both of your sweatshirts and your hat made it home. The trike is gone. You destroyed the fork and you have no idea where you left it. You have a vague recollection of seeing chunks of your front teeth on the trunk of a Mercedes. You tossed them into the weeds.
Your teeth are fucked. You had good teeth with a nice gap, and now you have fangs.
Walk around in a trance. Laugh about it. Come close to crying. Be scared that your alcoholism is getting away from you.
Scott got a small carrot cake for you. It has your name on it and some candles. You can thank god that everything is almost all okay.