Un-mysto-ing the mysto

I wake up on the couch of TimLoh's suite around 7am. Excited to rehash the silliness of the night before and begin another glorious day, I leap up from the couch and bound over to Tim's room, totally set to pounce on him.

(tires screech)

EEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



I pause, stunned.

Taking a step back, I try to recall any point at which we met some Asian chick that TimLoh showed interest in...nothing.

I try to remember how we got home....nothing.

To uncover the clues, I decide to look back through my trusty photographic sidekick.

PartyPartyParty..... TimLohTimLohTimLoh... Ew. I look horrible in that picture...Last picture of the night...A-HA!



At precisely 2:32 AM, TimLoh was seated at his desk, making what was without-a-doubt The Booty Call.

(TimLoh's baller status is NOT to be underestimated. Women of the world drop their panties at the mention of his name.)

But this picture....no... it is not enough. I WANT ANSWERS!!!!

I look out the window.



Wounded-ness everywhere. Wounded soldier Heineken. Wounded bottle of fancy champagne. Uneaten hamburger (with fries). COMPLETELY wounded pepperoni pizza.



Mmmmmm cold pizza. I excitedly try to throw open the sliding door. But the door leading to the patio from the living room is JAMMED.

The only other access point is through the bedroom. I curse this fact, yet deep in my soul I know that Lord Jesus hath presented me with such a situation for a very specific reason.

Still, I press my face against the glass, yearning for sweet pepperoni goodness. A tear is shed, I make my peace, and continue my sleuthing...

OOOOH!!! A PURSE!!!

I am fairly certain we will soon uncover the identity of this mysterious female.



And behold, I am correct.



Oh the teenagers.

TimLoh is a god.