You and your best mates are driving 130 kilometres an hour and you’re halfway through a six hour journey to the mountains. Two of you have been drinking the whole way.

The problem is, you have self imposed rules of no more pulling over to piss.

There’s only one way to get it out now.

You wind your window down, grab the handle above you and slowly ease your self out. With your legs and butt locked against the side of the car as you tower out like some sort of drunken yoga monk.

Your heart pumps like crazy as you look ahead into the pitch black night. The headlights give you glimpses of an insight as to how far to the next corner is. You’re good for about 600 meters.

You unzip. Start to piss all over yourself. Then you try to piss quicker as the corner comes closer.

You slide back into the car and it hurls around the corner at double the recommended 60kmh.

You crack open another beer. You live through another piss cycle. You live to the tell the tale another day.

That’s the kind of stupid shit you do as a teenager. It was freedom. But at what cost?

Would I do it again? Hell no. Do I regret it? Fuck no. But don’t tell my kids.