Be brutally honest, I already know it’s not very good!

It was late. I probably had too many drinks, and I probably should have told people where I was. As I stand up from my stool, drink in hand, I stumble a little. I turn my head toward the left and see the guy fallen asleep, face buried in the counter, and I turn to the right and— oh no. I rush to the washroom, tripping and wobbling as I go. My path isn’t straightforward, and it has many unnecessary curves— another giveaway to the fact that I was drunk. I swing open the door with force, a loud crash echoing through the disgusting washroom. After I just barely push my way into the stall, I vomit. In my drunken state, I brush it off, and go back into the bar. I sit back down in my still-warm stool and try to order another drink. “Sorry ma’am, I no longer feel comfortable serving you.” The bartender refused. Well that’s the first time that’s ever happened to me. Instead of another drink, under the bartender’s influence, I close out my tab using my husband’s credit card, and leave the bar. As I stumble down the stairs of the bustling building, the noise a blur compared to the ringing in my ears, I peer out into the slightly-lit streets. It’s not like I could drive home even if I brought a car here, so I walked. I definitely could have just texted or called someone to pick me up, but no, I just had to walk. As I walk away from the bar, the light fades with it. It’s dark and my head is spinning. I push through it regardless. The house isn’t so far away anyway. After a while of walking, a new light appears. Oh how I long for that cozy bed— warmth emitting from the person I love as we cuddle up together to sleep. I walk up the driveway—stone cold on my bare feet, My high heels I was wearing before dangling from my hand. I walk up two stairs to the door and push through it sloppily. There he was, sitting on a wooden chair. He had a wide stance. Legs spread far, and arms crossed, making us shoulders appear impossibly larger than they already were. “Elizabeth. Where. We’re. You.” He said, voice stern and cold. “The bar. It was fun if you care” I say as I try to dismiss myself from the conversation. He puts a stiff arm out, stopping me. I roll my eyes and turn to face him again. “But you’re late. And you walked home. I can smell the vomit on you.” His voice raises slightly “what do you have to say for yourself?”