'Twas the week before Christmas and all through the Calhoun household, no creature was stirring, excepted Forrest Calhoun climbing up the back wall. Truth be told, his curfew was 10:00 whilst he was living under his fathers rules, but sometimes that's just too early. So today he decided to sneak back in at 2:50 in the morning, totally drunk, with his drinking buddies throwing rocks at him as he climbed up the wall, trying to knock him down. He reached his window eventually, held his middle finger aloft, and almost fell of the wall again.
He managed to force the window leading onto the hall open, and clamber in. Halfway. He managed to fall asleep with his face on the floor and his feet sticking out of the window for at least a couple of hours. By the time he woke up he was just slightly tipsy. "Oh, dammit!" He muttered, as he manually lifted his feet from over the windowsill, shut it and stumbled to his bed, spewing a variety of colourful words at top volume. By the time he got to his room and climbed into bed, some of the neighbours were switching their lights on, checking out the source of the problem.
He woke up again at 8:30 fully dressed, with beer down the front of his shirt, and sand in his socks and shoes. It was typical of him to come back from a wild night out in this state, even more so around Christmas or Lent, just so he could prove he would not be able to give up alcohol, no matter what time of the year. He changed into clean clothes, a green t-shirt, brown leather aviator jacket and blue jeans. His head was throbbing, it felt like a power drill was being forced through his head. With great difficulty, he willed himself to shuffle downstairs and rifle through the medicine cabinet to find some painkillers.
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