I haven't drunk gin since that one unfortunate incident in eighth grade at somebody's parents' Halloween party. We, the minors, sat in a gazebo in the backyard and polished off a whole bottle of Tangeray which one us, a more proactive and early-blooming dipsomaniac, had swiped from the self-serve bar inside.
I haven't drunk Chabli, from a box or otherwise, since that series of encounters spanning a summer and autumn in a year before any of us figured out how to drive. I only know the timeframe because one of the few things I do recollect is traveling on foot. This series of encounters culminates in a three-part grand finale beginning in the quarry (that rocky hotbed of underage anarchy); pit-stopping under the big tree in the cemetery; and finishing up in the front yard of my house where my mother found us all passed out in the grass some hours later.