Punks Don't Wear Prada

I sat in the passenger seat of Emma's four door Mini Cooper, trying to concentrate on deep breaths and swallowing down all of the extra saliva pooling in my mouth. My mouth had a nasty, grimy taste to it and Merc's cereal was trying to find a way back up.
Emma was obliviously chatting about a manivour she wanted the cheer squad to practice on Monday before I (rather rudely, I admit) interrupted her.

"Em, do you think you could drop me off at my house? I feel so sick... I don't think working out is a good idea right now..." I asked.

She glanced at me before nodding and turning her radio down.

"Yeah, no problem Dani." She said a little cheerily before turning her blinker on, sending us in the opposite direction.

"Um, do you remember anything from last night?" She asked.

"Not at all, so far I've kind of had a horrible morning," I put my hand to my face, "I don't really like it, do you remember last night?"

She glanced at me again before nodding, "I remember writing Jess a letter that I gave to Amy to give to him, but I think she gave it to Merc instead, have you seen it?"

"Yeah I think so, Merc gave me a slip of paper this morning, I have it somewhere," I glanced around myself. Where did I put it?
Leaning out of my seat belt, I started rummaging in my bag at my feet. I guess my body didn't like this little move because suddenly my mouth pooled with even more saliva and I felt a small heave come on. I swallowed deeply and sat up quickly, glancing out of my window. We had arrived at my house. I unfastened my seat belt with my left hand and snatched my purse up with my right before hauling out of the car.

"Can I give it to you later? I promise I won't read it but I've got to-" I threw up on my drive way. Great, that's a first. A very nasty, grotty, first. I turned around and ran to my house without looking back.
I ran to the bathroom in my bedroom and threw up the entire contents of my stomach as well as my intestines and liver, I believe.

I crawled into my room and slid out of my jeans before climbing into bed. The last thing I want is my mother to see me like this, so forced myself up to lock my bedroom door. I have never, ever, been this hungover before. Last night was probably the first time I had ever been 'properly' drunk, and definitely my first time ever blacking out. My phone rang, it was Emma. I silenced my ringer and hoped she'd leave a voicemail.
Back in bed, I glanced down and realized I was still wearing Merc's shirt. My blonde hair looked rather nice in contrast to the black shirt, and I could still smell Merc's scent wafting from the fabric. He smelled like clean laundry and musky boy cologne, which was odd to me because all Josh ever smelled like was chemically boy cologne and outside; I never knew boys had more than one scent to them. There wasn't much I really knew about boys. Josh was my first real boyfriend, and, while I had other guy friends, they were all friends of Josh and I had never been close enough to smell them.
I pulled the collar of Merc's shirt over my nose and closed my eyes, concentrating on last night.
I tried to recall what Merc told me about, throwing my shirt out of the window and being too drunk to give him directions to my house, but I drew a big, fat blank.
I shook my head gently and slid further into my bed. Maybe I'd dream about it.
I rolled to my side so I could face my bedroom door and glanced at the floor, my jeans were in a ball and I noticed something white peeping out of the back pocket. Oh, that must be Emma's letter to Jess.
I closed my eyes again and tried not to wonder what was in the letter, but I couldn't.
She'd never know if I read it," I thought. "But I would know..." .
After five minutes of debating with myself, I sat up a little and extended my leg, sliding my jeans over. I leaned down and snatched the paper. Before I could argue with myself, I unfolded it and promised myself I'd only read one line. This promise was quickly broken when I realized the letter wasn't written in Emma's handwriting. My brow furrowed as I realized I didn't even recognize the handwriting, but I did recognize my own. What the heck?
I sat up straighter and paused to smooth the paper down.

As I read, my heart started aching bad enough to rival my head.
I absolutely cannot believe what I am reading.
Tears spring in my eyes and before I know it I'm sobbing. I toss the letter away from me and fling myself onto my pillows. I sobbed for a good ten minutes before I finally passed out.

And what did the letter say?

Well, it said:
I, Danielle Leigh Fillips, (my name was written in my handwriting) promise to stop acting like such a stuck up, pretentious little bitch and will start acting like a normal shitty teenager. I'm not the perfect little princess I think I am, nor am I beloved by my peers. In fact, my peers think I'm a snotty, two faced skank who thinks her shit doesn't stink. With these ten witnesses, I promise on my ugly, stupid Prada bags that I'll be, as earlier stated, a shitty teen who doesn't give a fuck about my future or try to uphold my stupid 'perfect' stature. I'll act, speak, look, dress, eat, and fuck like a completely different, completely normal, person. Oh and I smell like poop!
(The last sentence was the only thing, other than her signature, that Emma had written.)
Under the paragraph there was all ten of her closest friends' signatures, including my own.