Nobody remembered who started it, but by Saturday night, the whole crew had gathered in Kevin's living room with seven drinks lined up on the table like soldiers. Each one looked dangerous, smelled worse, and promised the kind of regret you can't Google a cure for.
Sharon lifted her glass of Sanctified Sunday Sangria and said, "To health!" before tripping over Monday's spilled Moody Mule and face-planting into the couch. Monday just muttered, "Figures."
Tuesday proudly served his Trash Can Punch in an actual mop bucket, while Wednesday stuck a straw in the middle and called it "community bonding." Someone swore they saw the Cheeto floating like a lifeguard.
By the time Thursday's Thunder Brew started glowing under the blacklight, everyone was convinced the house was haunted. Then Friday lit his Freaky Shots on fire and shouted, "The ghost approves!" Nobody disagreed.
Finally, Saturday rolled in with the frozen Smurf Delight, blue tongues everywhere, whipped cream on the ceiling fan, and half the group singing the Smurf theme song off-key.
When the sun came up, no one could say what day it was, but the fridge was empty, the mop bucket was missing, and someone's grandma was asleep on the porch holding a halo-shaped wine glass.
One thing was certain:
The week had officially blacked out.