" Sweat began to pour off me and the contents of my stomach–soft serve ice cream, peach schnapps, and a handful of wax potpourri I’d earlier mistaken for Gummi bears–roiled in an unholy stew. The smell of poached eggs was overwhelming. Without benefit of loafers or coat, I ran outside to vomit in a snowbank. All I could think the entire time was, “Nancy Reagan was right.” After that, I just said no to smoking pot, and, for quite a while, poaching eggs. "

― Jen Lancaster , Stories I'd Tell in Bars