Friday night was party night. A night where you could go out with Davina, your lovely girlfriend, drink and dance and make as many minor bad choices as you liked with no need to worry about the following day.

But not this time. This time you'd screwed up. This time you'd consumed entirely too many drinks that were much too strong for you. Not good. Your vision was screwy, like a shattered mirror showing a dozen different fractured pictures, all blurred together into one unintelligible picture. At the same time, the alcohol roiled in your stomach and zipped about your body in your bloodstream, making your limbs feel entirely too big and clumsy and your head all slow and foggy. You kinda wanted to vomit.

As Davina watched you down drink after drink and wobble around toward the dance floor, drunk as a skunk and clearly not doing so hot.

"Vi-vi?" you giggled to her, landing in her lap after a wobbly lap around the bar. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

Of all panic-provoking words, 'I think I'm gonna throw up' were particularly bad. Davina rushed you to the restroom and had you kneel, debating in her head as to whether your clothes would be washed or burned later.

"Okay," she said, "you'll be okay, love. Just get it all out, and then I'll take you home, yeah?"