The smell of sweat and stale beer clung to me like a bad tattoo as I stumbled out of the crowded bar, arm in arm with a guy who claimed to be a neurosurgeon but looked suspiciously like a middle-aged hipster named Dave. We had met exactly four minutes prior and were, somehow, in the midst of planning our first joint karaoke performance in Japanese. My legs felt like overcooked noodles, and I could hardly recall how I'd made it to the stage without face-planting off the edge of the stool in front of the bartender, who looked decidedly concerned as we croaked our way through a rendition of "Sayonara Sayonara" at 4 AM, surrounded by about 300 sympathetic drunks.
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