story of the stairs and the names

The staircase is so becoming my newest favourite place in the world.
First it was during my cocktail party that I discreetly scurried to the stairs with once again, ess and bee to smoke unmentionable substances. The end result was I don't particularly recollect much that evening, what with too much alcohol and other things that I should really not be doing in my system.
Then the fact that I really do climb 13 floors to my office everyday. Its the weight-loss, tone-up and look hot plan. And now last night.
Deja Vu of sorts. Hiding. Craning the already hurt neck to see if any auntie-uncle-p type people are around the corner, and then quickly being bad.
Tch-tch.
Also one must remember to not overdo the spirits. No. Control. And that's because overdoing alcohol can mean only one thing. That when you are taking a smoke break in the loo and the above-mentioned auntie type auntie does walk in when you are practicing smoking rings and registers the shocking thing that she just saw, you just smile. And then you overhear her at the party telling someone how bunty's best-friend's wife smokes. And the name is asked for. And you hear her taking your name and adding his last name to it. And because you are drunk, have mixed too many different things vying for your liver's and lung's attention, you simply go over and tell mrs. auntie, "actually, my name is name.and.my.maiden.last.name and smile again.
Terrible.
Coming back to the staircase. You somehow drive home, cuz well, P is more drunk than you are, and so suddenly you grow up in a flash and take responsibility to drop all drunk children home. And then realise upon reaching home and parking the car, the facade of responsibilty is fast wearing off. And that the alcohol has indeed soaked your skull. And therefore, you pass out on the stairs. Land on your bottoms, to be precise.