In the course of earning a bachelor of science degree from Ball State University, I learned many important lessons. These lessons were found not just in books and classes, but in the day-to-day obstacles encountered while trying to gain an independent foothold in the adult world.

And as I have grown older and gained life experience, I have come to forget most of them. Among the lessons I have tossed aside is, "Do not ingest the contents of a shot glass unless you have filled that glass yourself and the glass has never been out of your sight."

When in college, you learn this rule the morning after someone hands you a plastic shot cup filled with purple liquid. Because you are in college, and only the Biggest Loser on Campus would decline such a generous offer, you slug down that purple liquid without hesitation. In the aftermath, when your head feels like it's been hit by Australia, you learn that the little cup of purple liquid was a drink called Don't Make Any Plans.

You would think that kind of lesson would stay with a person for a long time. Of course, if it did, this would be a pretty short column.

So last week I was in a local juice bar, talking with the manager for a magazine story, when he pointed out a menu item called wheat grass juice. A 1-oz. shot of this juice – extracted directly from wheat grass right behind the counter – is purported to contain nutritional value equivalent to 2 ½ pounds of fresh vegetables, and is supposed to provide an energy boost. I asked the manager what the juice tastes like.

"It tastes like hell," he said.

Still, the idea of getting that many vegetables in one quick shot was intriguing. How bad could it be? So the next morning, I returned and plunked down $1.50 for a shot of the juice. I asked the young lady behind the counter, "So, how bad is this stuff?"

"Well ...," she began wryly. (Reader: Now we are at the point in this endeavor where, if this were a horror movie, you would be yelling at the screen, "No! Don't do it! Don't go there!")

"Do you want a shot of ginger in it? That's the only way I can do it," the young lady said. "Just think to yourself, 'I'm cleaning out my insides and doing something good for myself'," she added. (Cue scary music.)

I took the drink – which was the color of NyQuil – into my car, where I had a bottle of water and a stash of pumpkin bread on Emergency Standby Alert. I also didn't want to hurl on the floor of the juice bar. After a deep breath and a last futile attempt to remember just why it was I shouldn't be drinking from a shot glass filled by a stranger, I threw my head back and slugged down the drink. (AIIEEEE!)

It is almost impossible to put into words the incomparably wretched taste of this drink, but I will try to give you a sensory comparison. Imagine trying to give birth ... to a porcupine ... on the Hindenburg ... as the Brady Bunch serenades you with "Feelings."

This drink is worse than that.

It did provide an energy boost, but I think that was mostly mental. I was so happy to know that I'd never, ever have to drink wheat grass juice again, I was thrilled to be alive! Four days later, I was still on an emotional high. The downside is that even if it does provide all the vitamins and other nutrients it claims, you are so desperate to get that miserable taste out of your system that all you can think of is Taco Bell.

Though the taste is finally gone, the residue of that lesson should resonate at least another 10 years. By then I should be safe – I won't care about getting drunk or getting my vegetables.