Earlier this week, I headed out to dinner with my brother David, his business partner, and an investor they knew, who was possibly interested in putting some money into Cyan’s next project.

The investor owned some nightclubs, and was therefore an alcoholic. So, after dinner, he suggested we all grab a round of drinks nearby. And then another round. And then another.

My brother and his partner, at that point, wisely bowed out. But I could tell the guy was sizing me up, trying to see if I could, as the kids say, bring it.

So, I kept on drinking. And he kept on drinking. And, when we parted some hours later, it was with much increased mutual respect.

Or so I assume. Actually, by that point, I had totally blacked out.

I’m not entirely sure how I made it home, though Jess tells me I came in the door talking gibberish and laughing hysterically, barely able to stand.

But the next morning, I woke up feeling great. I wasn’t hung over at all!

Instead, I soon discovered, I was still drunk. Still totally, plastered drunk.

It’s a miracle I didn’t fall onto the subway tracks on my way to work. I could barely type once I arrived. But I still felt fine. Until about 11:00am, when I suddenly and violently crossed out of drunk, and into terribly, horribly hung over.

For reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, we have a small ironing board in our office at the moment. Which, it turned out, is precisely the right size and height for use as a pillow when lying on the floor, something I preceded to do for the next hour and a half.

I rallied in time for a business lunch, which I managed without tossing my cookies in the restaurant bathroom (something, unfortunately, I did last year in a similar situation), though I was otherwise utterly worthless the rest of the day – couldn’t write emails, answer the phone, or even focus on a piece of paper well enough to read.

Still, it looks like the investor will be coming through, and may even be bringing the deal around to a couple of his angel investing friends. So, in the end, as I told a friend yesterday afternoon, happy as ever to take one for the proverbial team.

He pointed out that approach, essentially, made me a whore.

To which I replied, no no, given the amount of money we’re talking about, I’m fairly certain I qualify as an ‘escort’.