On the mortification meter, this is at least a nine.
Do you know the acute shame of waking up in a bright room you’ve only seen in subdued lighting in the company of a boozy stranger who, just hours before, had your undivided attention? When you went home with him, it didn’t matter that his walls were plastered with posters of naked and semi-naked chicks or that he’s so proud of seeing Slipknot that he’s taped the ticket stub to their show to the wall above his bed.
But now, sunlight is streaming in and you can’t avoid reality. There’s a naked man next to you in a single bed who clearly has the intellect of a precocious 12-year-old, and there could be nothing worse than having a conversation with him. Better just to be on your way as silently as possible and hope he’ll play the I-Don’t-Know-You-Either game next time you run into him down at the bar.