"Ha Ha! Ariana Grande!" screamed Rixton as we drove down the highway.
We both clinked our bottles and drank the Bud Light. The radio was blaring Ariana Grande's song, Problem, as loud as it could go. It was around 10 pm, and I was driving with my back hooves, which I'm sure is illegal, holding my Bud Light in one hoof and my other laying on the side of the convertible.
We had just stopped at the most amazing beer bar in the world. We're only seventeen, and we had celebrated with watching almost ten rated-R movies on our birthday weekend, but our parents didn't really care if we drank. Heck, I'm not waiting no 4 years to drink! So, we got some bottles and headed out.
I didn't even realize that we passed our exit as soon as Problem started. I guess we were too drunk. After all, I had nearly three bottles that night. But that's when I started not paying attention. A highway was the worst place to be drunk. Hundreds of cars streaming down the road, you could never even know if a satellite fell on you if you were too drunk.
That was the night I lost Rixton.
We were driving when out of nowhere a GMC Sierra started zooming towards us. I don't remember much, but I know that there were headlights. Then there was a crash. I flew out of the car. Dazed, I looked up to only see that Rixton was still in the car, under the giant Sierra truck which crushed our convertible.
"RIXTON!" I screamed. I tried to get up but found that my left leg simply had broken in the fall. The last thing I saw before I passed out was a pony rushing toward me with her cell phone in her mouth.