I could remember nothing of the night before other than the series of Bip Pivo beers passing before me, as if on a bottling line. I shrugged it off, youthfully unaware that I was in a single summer disabling clusters of brain cells at a pace that would leave me, just seventeen years later, routinely standing in places like a pantry or toolshed, grazing at the contents and trying to remember what the hell it was that I had wanted.
--Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There.