First she’d apparently passed out on top of her bed without removing most of her outfit. The snug, dark charcoal vest was lying on the floor next to her bed but that was as far as she’d gotten. Her cravat was crumpled and her mane and were a disheveled, by Rarity’s standards, mess.
But a greater concern to her was the unrelenting, agonizing headache that threaten to detonate her head. Her stomach was a churning maelstrom, and what had been the wondrous taste of the many stouts last night
Edited
It does sound disturbing, doesn’t it?
but she’d bring DIRTY DIRTY DIRT into the bed
You have to look fabulous at anytime, even during sleep.
Rarity, when she collapses after a night of drunken debauchery.