id

To document a good time takes a lot more effort than to report a bad one.
I'd rather stumble from the bar with a beer bottle dent in the back of my skull, a memento of some trivial late night scrap, the cause of which will never be reconstructed.
I'd rather flee the club with chunks of skin carved out by fingernail extensions, the end product of some minor miscommunication and subsequent disagreement.
This is from a writing perspective.
Which shouldn't shock anyone, its a cultural thing. Tomorrow, we'll read about scandals and malfunctions and burn victims. No one likes to read partly cloudy. We'd rather see the smoking gun than the flashing green light. Its like some masochistic hand grenade ticking in between the id and the superego, itching to be fed.
But.
It was a good time tonight,
which means I have nothing to feed you.