Upon Further Reflection: Three Days in Columbus

There's a time when Columbus would have been in the running for a chapter in The Tweener's Guide to Cities You'd Never Want to Visit, and it probably still would be, except that now I have a friend living there - what up L-town! - who can parse the charming hicks from the regular hicks. (There are people in Ohio named Horn, btw.) This probably would have been a more exciting recap if I'd written it Friday morning when I was still drunk from Ladies' 80s, but I'll see what I can do. For the time being, just add a "/I was super drunk." on to the end of every sentence, clause, word. You can mix it up for preference or effect however you'd like i.e. the girls were extra slutty/I was pished.

Anyway, on Thursdays we went to a party at a bar called Scully's that looks small from the outside. Ladies 80s is really a fantastic idea that all cities and towns should adopt. They play all the hits from the 80s that you won't remember in the morning and girls get in free whether they're trashy or classy! (I assume the latter.) They have a dance floor, then another raised dance floor, and that dance floor has a ledge you can lean on once you realize it was a bad idea - KEY. Bonus, as soon as you enter some guy buys you two big old red bull vodkas and even throws in a little flattery to boot. Needless to say, I was riding high on Ohio around 1 AM Friday morning. Well, maybe not me, but a little guy I like to call my autopilot, or superconscious - although that term is wholly inaccurate. On the way home I trashed a gyro and yelled in some Brits window who live downstairs. The next day they said they were heavy sleepers but I think they just didn't want to mess with Texas. Can't blame 'em since I've been telling people that I'm working out again.

Friday, someone had a room at a Hilton where we swindled a bigger room, put a bunch of beers in a bathtub, blew a ton of adderall, smoked a hog's rod of cigarettes, corrupted some poor kid security guard, and took two hours to decide not to go swimming. It seems stupid now, but it feels pretty amazing to roll up on a confused Shiva store clerk and say "Three packs Marlboro Red, three packs Parliament, three packs Camel."

Saturday, we hurt like a combination of Pedro Romero after Robert Cohn beat his ass and Jake Barnes after he lost his cock in the war, so we smoked some trees and watched fifteen episodes of the X-Files.

So, in conclusion:
COLUMBUS FTW