Your body probably hates you in your twenties. After eating crappy food, experimenting with drugs, and drinking enough alcohol to vomit rainbow colors, your body is officially fed up. It kind of feels like your mind and body are bickering conjoined twins sometimes. The two often want different things but they need to meet each other halfway in order to survive.
All holidays are really just an excuse to get wasted and Easter is no exception. In fact, I would argue that Easter is the booziest of holidays because it has such a flimsy premise. What do you do in your twenties for a holiday that revolves around dyeing eggs?
The first few weeks of school will feel like summer camp. Everyone is just so open and ready to meet their future best friends. Leave your door open and play alternative music so people will know that someone cool lives there. Also develop a strategic plan with your clothes. Wear outfits that will convey to people what kind of stereotype you fall under.
I spent the next few hours in my version of a K-hole, which was watching Kate Bush’s music video for “Babooshka” 8,000 times while listening to Pedro talk about Belle & Sebastian B-sides. Despite the lackluster ambience, I was still excited. After all, my plan appeared to be working.
The Fashion Hipster is typically not very nice and tends to have a real pack mentality. They check fashion blogs religiously, buy imported fashion magazines only and are either the most fashion-forward person in their shithole town or live in New York.
Do you really want to say the words “…so, you grew up Harrisburg?” while some dick airs out his soulful acoustic cover of “Bad Romance” in the corner? No, you do not. Live music is loud, distracting, and frequently terrible, so avoid band bars at all costs.
I love this country, don’t get me wrong. Despite its awful reputation Stateside, there are many things about France that I find charming, amusing, or worthy of a distinct lowering of my morals (hey, fellas!). But while I’d love to pretend that Paris is the metropolitan equivalent of an Edith Piaf song dipped in chocolate, there are many things here that simply blow.
You’re shaking off the remnants of last night, scrubbing the caked-on mascara from your face, scrounging in your purse for money you can’t believe you spent, deleting the drunk texts you wish you could forget. Too lazy to shower, you ponytail your hair and half-heartedly squirt some concealer under your sallow eyelids.
In less than four hours, the purple fermented love potion which had been trapped inside for over 8 years had finally been exorcized into a glass, briefly, where it swirled as a miniature kind of hurricane-and then was emptied into my mouth, down my esophagus, where such swallowed Gods resided in my stomach, softly rippled by the faint beat of my drunken heart.