Pulp It Like It’s Hot: That Time I Peed On My Best Friend’s Face

I lift my underwear with a beastly bellow and grasp my unicorn tail — a long pink pashmina I’ve pinned to my rear-end — and spin it above my head like a demented cowgirl.

So. OK. It was my first year in Brooklyn—I was a freshly minted (nearly bucktoothed in a black blazer) adult living on 18th St. and 4th Ave. in Brooklyn with my best friend from boarding school.

(If you can’t remember what it felt like to get your first apartment, rented with your money; to furnish it—horribly and with great joy—with mismatched sofas and chairs plumbed from the basements of parents and blousy aunts and dust-choked thrift shops and gaze around with a wrenching pride and think, this is my goddamn castle! I suggest you revisit these memory shoals because that feeling was some powerfully heady shit.)

What I am trying to say is that I was 24 years old and we’d gotten into what were known then as Danger Parties. A friend of a friend of a friend would throw these giant, definitely dangerous and likely illegal parties in blown-out warehouses in east Brooklyn thrumming with costumed freaks and climbable art and drunken bands and shadowed sex and they were huge—sometimes sprawling across 3 or 4…