I don't have boobs or a butt that necessitate individual names. Some refer to breasts as Pinky and Perky. Asses can be Badonkadonk or Bumper Rumper. My tits and arse resemble those of a twelve-year-old drag queen. However, my face is passably feminine. I hadn't seen Rob Awesome, MK Ultra, or Polly in six months. During our attempt at a reunion dinner, I visited the hospital. For my face. I had half a tooth and ensuing depression from intoxication aftermath.
Thus, when I awoke the next morning, I did what any self-respecting female would: I continued drinking. My swollen lip, inability to move my mouth, and my half a tooth conflicted with my ambitions to rapidly intoxicate myself. However, through perseverance and persistence, I achieved my goal. In between goon (boxed wine) and beer around eleven in the morning, I inquired if the hospital supplied me with antiseptic cream or drugs. Jack retrieved the goods from her purse: a one-inch tube of eye ointment. I have never heard of eye ointment applied on skin in place of much-needed Vicodin taken orally, but I was too bombed to question the hospital's decisions. This was before I grasped that medicine's finest had internally stitched my face with non-dissolvable sutures.
Jack equipped us with McDonald's breakfast, Rob Awesome supplied accommodation, food, and booze, and MK Ultra and Polly concocted a three-course dinner comprised of succulent lamb, garlic mashed potatoes, steamed baby carrots, asparagus, caramelized onions, zucchini, and yellow squash, all saturated in baby lamb gravy and tasting like it came from Cafe Bizou in LA. The others bequeathed food and well-being, and I contributed amusement every time anyone glanced at my face.
Polly and MK Ultra trailed dinner and Pinot Noir with Hello to the Queen: a crumbled cookie, vanilla ice cream, nut splattered, fudge painted dessert delicacy from India. We ate it in the hot tub. By nighttime, I had been beering my face for eight hours. The five of us massacred our purchased booze supply by imbibing cases of beer, boxes and bottles of wine, and rum down our tracheas. We then completed the only logical measure: marched through Rob Awesome's dad's alcohol supply. We slugged Kahlua, swilled Chartreuse, and swigged Chambord. We mixed alcohol like alcoholics on a shit-faced mission. This ethanol cocktail spawned cockeyed logic: the five of us skinny-dipped in a seven-seater hot tub. Our legs touched.