It takes more to impress me now, but not much

Bars are always more fun when you are underage.
Actually, most things are more fun when you are underage. Once you have hit the age of majority the thrill is usually gone.
Sometimes we spend hours discussing our glory days. We reminisce about all the things that seemed normal at the time, but that we have since come to realize were extraordinary. It seems as though the bits and pieces that make up my life all belong to different people and this one part belongs primarily to him.
I remember one evening, in the middle of winter, when I drunkenly lamented about the profound sense of loss I felt at not being able to write my name in the snow with my own urine. The bar wench brought pitcher after pitcher of beer to our table for the boys and I spent the evening sampling all the girly drinks the menu had to offer. Just before he packed me into a cab and directed it to my home, he pulled me into an alley and pointed at a snowbank emphatically.
"Look! Look!" he whined.
And so I looked.
There, in urine, my name sparkled in the moonlight. "Megan." it said.
"It is beautiful," I told him, moved far more than I probably should have been, "but why is there a period at the end of my name?" It turned out that, upon finishing with my name, he realized his bladder was far from empty and a period was the only artistic embellishment that he could come up with at the time. It did not matter though. I spent the fifteen minute cab ride home smiling and asking the cab driver if he had ever written a girl's name in the snow.