To the drunk who ruined my nose last night

I am so sorry that your efforts to charm me in front of my friends-- which wouldn't have worked anyway, Don Juan-- so utterly failed when your elbow solidly planted itself into my nose, and that the drink you bought me afterward, which my aforementioned friends had to persuade you to buy, utterly failed to prevent the dull but constant pain my nose has suffered the entire next day.

Or maybe it was picking me up and spinning me afterward, like if I was an infant and sufficiently distracted I would forget you had just hit me in the face. Or maybe it was fifteen minutes later, when you came back to our table and tried to make amends by kissing my nose. HARD. Which almost made it bleed again. Your efforts in this respect made some of my more testosterone-laden friends almost hit you in the face, and it took all of my remaining patience not to let them.

I can't smell anything right now, nor can I properly sip from a straw, and if you damaged my nose permanently I will totally bring those friends and find you in your beer-addled corner of Beckett's to return the favor.

UPDATE:
Three days later, I still can't smell (save particularly putrid perfumes), but now the pain has subsided to the type of invisible bruising where I grow complacent and itch my nose, only to relive the pain all over again. I should be lucky I don't look awful, but who knew the tip of your nose touches so many things on a daily basis? This is living Heidegger's equipmentality! I am such a dork.