Heart of Darkness (part III)

You have managed to concoct a possible reality as to why you, not only have no memory of your life, but also as to why the prior you might have aquired the room that the present you, now exists in.

It was just a matter of simple logic, really.  When you were cleaning the place up from today's earlier festivities, you got a good idea about your motives for having this particular spot, when you stumbled upon an open and mostly empty bottle of sleeping pills on the floor of the bathroom.

The first time you saw it, was during the crescendo of Mr. Puke's performance - Open-pill Bottle was literaly moved and almost had to leave the theatre because of her personal connection to the subject matter, and had you known she was who she was at the time, you would have probably felt obligated to thank her for her generous donation, without which, you were quite solid on the fact, that the entire benefit would have been canceled, due to a sudden onset of  performance anxiety from a certain Mr. Puke, who never seems like a diva at first, but turns out to be quite picky about his particulars on certain extra special occasions such as this one.

In any event, once you had made it to that section of the floor, and found Miss Bottle; you took the time to properly clean her up, and discovered in doing so (by examining the details of her soaking wet bodice), that the multitude of her progeny were solely dedicated to providing a healthy alternative to: operating heavy machinery, and internet porn.  Strange sort of bunch really, but no one's really the wiser, especially since they also seem to wipe memories when people are trying to kill themselves, at least this is what you've figured out thus far.

You have to admit to yourself that, in hindsight, the memory loss bit, is a bit strange by itself.  So during a motivated second inspection of your surroundings, you determine that your lack of personally known history could also have been a product of a collaboration between Miss Bottle's babies, and the prior inhabitants of the multitude of empty liquor bottles, fast food trash, and beer cans littered around the room, which consequently could also account for the illustrious duo's surprise performance this morning, if you were to conceed that the prior tenents of all the housings mentioned above, squatted the night at One Abdomen Square only to be kicked out en masse the next morning. 

You laugh to yourself as you consider that your body became a temple to so many vagrants, and wonder if your present state is the result of some sort of cosmic cleansing ritual, and maybe that is why you can't remember.

However...

It doesn't matter really, because in all supposed realities it always comes back to the same thing.  You came to this place to kill yourself.  It's a solid assumption, based on simple logic.  Then you laugh again - this time out loud.