I was staggering up to my campsite in the Berkeley hills, well after midnight, drunk. And when I bent down to pick up the big piece of cardboard that I use for matting that I keep stashed behind this tree, all the alcohol in my blood rushed right down to my head-bone, causing me to lose my balance. And I toppled over, face-forward and fell down the hill.
Fortunately, I was holding the cardboard up to my chest when I fell, and I actually slid smoothly down the hill on top of the cardboard, like I was riding a toboggan. Until I came to the bottom of the hill and crashed into the creek. Which at least was dry at the time.
But now the problem was, I was wedged into this cramped spot in the creek, and it was a steep incline that I was trapped in, and the dirt and rocks of the creek-bed kept shifting under my feet every time I tried to pull myself out of the creek. Plus, it was pitch-dark and I was still way drunk and dizzy in the head. I made 5 or 6 heroic attempts to pull myself to an upright position, falling straight back down every time. Finally I concluded the situation was hopeless.
But then it occurred to me: I had my cardboard matting. And I was carrying my sleeping bag. So why don’t I just sleep right here in the goddamn dry creek?
And that’s what I did. It was actually kind of cozy, and I slept peacefully and comfortably all night. Until around 4 in the morning when I was awoken by the sound of my feral cats. They were all circling around me, and meowing loudly. Meows that no doubt translated into English as: “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING SLEEPING DOWN THERE IN THAT DITCH, YOU STUPID IDIOT WHEN YOU SHOULD BE UP AT YOUR CAMPSITE FEEDING US OUR GODDAMN SUPPER??”
They had a point By that time I was semi-sober enough, and it was light enough, that I was able to maintain an upright position and extricate myself from that goddamn ditch. And I made it back to my campsite, and fed my goddamn feral cats, and we all lived happily ever after. THE END