“操他妈的……”苏寒再次把额头擂在床沿上，力道大得手背都麻了。昨晚那顿酒，简直喝的是醍醐灌顶，不，是酒精灌顶。十二瓶高度白酒下肚，他觉得自己能徒手拆个飞机引擎，结果呢？在KTV门口当众耍酒疯，把个服务员小姑娘的耳环扯掉，还顺走条项链。

项链的事儿倒是小事，人家小姑娘也懒得追究，可那耳环……苏寒现在一想到那个小姑娘泫然欲泣的表情，心里就一阵绞痛。-dimensional thinking is needed here, man. Just go buy another one, damn it. He grumbled internally, kicking the floor板 with his toes. The apartment was small, cramped, the walls practically pressing in. Not that he was complaining, mind you. Barely breaking even in a third-rate city like this, every square foot was precious. But still, kicking the furniture wasn't helping.

He finally paused the head-banging, rubbing his temples. The throbbing headache was a welcome distraction from the lingering shame of the night before. He glanced at the bed – still sticky with traces of cheap liquor, the pillowcase rumpled beyond salvation. He'd fought the urge to throw it out, though. Too many memories in this room. Of failing classes, of losing jobs, of staring at the ceiling, imagining grand schemes that never saw the light of day.