Extract VII

Written by Melissa Booey


Growing up, whenever my relatives traveled anywhere and asked what I wanted them to bring back for me, I would ask for a shot glass. Even as young as seven, or eight, I liked collecting them. So when my sister took a cross-country trip, she brought me back souvenir shot glasses from each and every state she visited. My favorite was the Kentucky shot glass, because it was in the shape of an actual, tiny gun-handle and all. I took it to my friend's one night, and proceeded to drink an entire bottle of Captain Morgan Rum chased with green olives. Once I blacked out, I had somehow misplaced the small glass pistol, and was convinced that someone at the party had stolen it. I took an empty Corona bottle and broke it over the countertop, threatening the entire household that no one was leaving until I got my Kentucky shot glass back. My best friend tried to wrestle the bottle away from me, but it proved difficult within the confines of the busy kitchen. Afraid I’d stab myself or someone else, he choked me out and put me to bed. I woke up the next morning and heard tales of my antics. Still drunk, I rifled through my purse for my phone, ready to send some apologies and take some names. There, at the bottom of my bag and perfectly intact, sat my Kentucky shot glass.