There are seven of us connected by an invisible string. Nipple tassels, Dutch Blitz, glycerin skin, shrimp skewers, spell jars, kisses goodbye, shiny bowls of fruit, performative puking—these are our rituals. We want to remember the forgettable moments. Moving from one LED-lit apartment to the next adorned with crumpled party hats, we hold as many bottles of cheap champagne as we can carry. The string tightens. We pile into a golf cart with nothing but a pair of patent leather shoes between us. There is an unexpected visitor. We chant so loudly that we do not hear the back door open. The string snags. Warm, wet, and intoxicated, we banish the intruder. We always knot it again.