You went out on Saturday and met up with Micaela. Predictably, you awaken in a bathtub of ice.
With only the delay made unavoidable by your still-intoxicated and near-exsanguinated state, you throw yourself over the edge of the bath, onto the dirty shag rug laid on the linoleum floor, begin to check you body for a fresh set of stitches.
"What the fuck did they take this time?" you ask aloud as you run your hands down your back, feeling the not-quite faded scar from your first involuntary surgery in which you lost a kidney. You move to the front, working up from your hip flexors, past the incision mark from when they took your appendix out, which you're sure they only did because they felt bad about taking your left testicle.
The text notification on your phone rings out and bounces off the tile walls. It's Micaela.
"Last night was great, thanks! Keep pressure on your finger for at least two hours."
You're horrified to look at your left hand and see that your pinky finger is missing.
"What the fuck do you do with a finger?" you scream to no one.
You text Micaela back. Luckily, they didn't take your thumbs. "See you next week."
You'd stop but she's so hot. One or two more organs and you're in, you just know it.