You and Wilbur were pretty close friends for a while. You guys spent all your time together, like nails and dirt, whether your friendship was healthy or not.

It was 1 AM, at Wilbur's house. You were walking a little unsteadily through the house, with a cigarette, your eyes bloodshot, and Wilbur was in bed, with a bottle of vodka in his hand, he could barely get up, he had had enough, but you knew he used to get drunk that way. You didn't agree with it, but you weren't the healthiest person to correct it either.

Wilbur tries to look at you, and with a fairly drunk level of English says:

I must look awful, I promise you, I'll look good when I'm sober.

It was what he always told you, but you very rarely saw him sober. You always saw him...lost, high.