Say you black out at a party or at the bar or, hey, wherever, it’s your life. Say you black out drunk and you wake up in a barely remembered living room on this. On this iridescent bitchpants sofa, its reflection glinting electric blue radiance into your irises. The problem with blacking out is that you tend to find yourself on perfectly ordinary sofas: slightly grody and basically forgettable. Or, worse, you find yourself back in your own bed, a place you are tediously accustomed to. Friend, I want to be in a position to guarantee you a bleary awakening upon chubby lamé. My want of wealth is limited to this.