Based off of a somewhat true story.
The drink tasted too good. It tasted like Merry Christmas with just a hint of lime and bubbles. With every sip I took the drink tasted better and better and better. The delicious beverage leaked from my mouth as I greedily gulped it down. I loved how the drink made me feel! I felt loose, powerful, confident, and drunk. Very drunk. But I didn’t care that I was most likely making a fool of myself. I felt good and in my drunken stupor I believed that everyone else thought I was absolutely hilarious. I felt like the life of the party. I felt just really, unbelievably good. Don’t worry; this isn’t a “I remember my fist beer” kind of night. This night is a “I’m too drunk to understand my own strength” kind of night. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending how you were imagining this drunken story to end I was not terribly injured and no one else was either. This is just a small story of how I got a scar on my index finger. I was drinking a gin and tonic with a bunch of my friends and I was having a blast! I finished my first few drinks in a hurry and I wanted more. I ran to my room in order to throw together another gin and tonic. I brilliantly poured the slightly golden liquid out of the gin bottle. I expertly splashed a touch of tonic water into the same cup. I then perfectly grabbed a lime with an already huge chunk cut out of it and a knife I found earlier that day under my bed. I took the blade and placed it against the lime’s porous skin. I then proceeded to slice another piece of lime when my uncontrollable strength and my obvious drunkenness caused me to slash the lime completely in half. I dropped the lime and yelped. I held up my hand and there on my left hand, between the first and second joint of my index finger was a deep cut that was leaking blood. I shrugged. I grabbed a band-aid, poured some of my roommate’s Zhenka (which is a ten dollar vodka) onto my wound, scooped up my lime and knife, finished the cut and threw in my slice of lime into my beverage and proceeded to party the rest of the night. The next morning when I woke up I took the band-aid off my finger to reveal dried blood and a deep gash. “Well, that was a successful night.” I said while I thoroughly cleaned out my battle wound. That night I realized that I should never handle a knife when I’m drunk. And yet, I have failed to listen to my own advice. I guess I’m just knife savvy when I drink.