The morning started out spectacularly. Packed into the comforts of an Oregon Coast beach house, a group of friends and I recounted the events from the night before, all nursing slight hangovers. We were all laughing as I casually lifted a glass to my lips and took a vigorous gulp. The room fell silent.
“That’s fucking disgusting,” one person cracked, trying to disguise malice with a feigned smile.
“Seriously, what are you, 10?” asked another.
The chorus grew until all but one friend was ganging up on my beverage choice like some sort of pitchfork-wielding mob swarming a decrepit castle, or a gaggle of puritans who caught the local minister holding hands with a comely widow. Epitaphs were flung. Gagging noises were made. I retreated in despair to another room to finish my drink, then sheepishly returned.