All right, so I'm mid-20s, and I'm at a wedding, and I have to leave early. Everyone knows I have to leave early, so they're like, "hey JynNJuice, have a drink with me," and I'm like, "okay, sure." There is wine. So very much wine.
And then it comes time to leave, but there is this one friend I haven't had a drink with yet, and I am compelled to track her down, and she says to me, "LET'S DO SHOTS." And since I'm drunk off my ass, I think this is a fantastic idea.
Fortunately, the bartender does not think this is a fantastic idea. Unfortunately, I suggest that friend and I instead have what she's been drinking all the night long, which happens to be vodka and cranberry. I knock it the fuck back.
We must now briefly segue to my husband's version of events:
I enter a sublime state of trashed. He gets me into the car. He arranges me such that, if I have to puke, I can puke out the passenger side, and he elects to drive in the right lane, so as to reduce potential casualties.
When I have to puke, I do not puke out the passenger side. I muster my strength and crawl to the opposite side, for who the fuck knows what reason, and spew out into the highway crowd. There is a cop driving by. My husband lowers his head in shame.
The next morning, I wake on the couch in the living room. That's as far as he was able to drag me. I don't have to work, but he does, and he tells me, as he leaves, that I might want to take my vehicle to the car wash. My head is pounding. I stumble outside, expecting something horrific.
From my angle, all I can see is pure, pristine car. I walk forward. I pass the passenger side. No blemishes. I wonder what he was talking about. And yet, at the same time, I have to admit that there's a...smell.
I pass the front of the vehicle, make my way up the driver's side.
My crest, as they say, falls.
There is a wide triangle, its point resting at the middle of the backseat window, spreading outward to cover the entire back third of the car and extending partway around the back. It's a deep purple, and it stinks. I open the back door, and discover that the back seat is covered in the same putrid purple gunk.
I don't take it to the car wash. I'm too embarrassed. I spend an hour and a half scrubbing at it with a kitchen sponge.
I haven't drunken that much since.