Filthadelphia Part 1: The Lights Out at da Strip Club
This was my first weekend off in a while. Not only did I have off Sunday but also Monday, so I was going HARD.
I found myself with a 24 pack at some house party.
“Why am I here what am I doing?”
Whatever. I didn’t know anyone there except the two friends I went there with so I just hung around drinking my beers mingling around. We decided to meet up with our friend somewhere nearby but it was already getting late. The only place nearby open past two was a strip joint called “The Dolphin.”
We met up with B - he was sitting there at the bar by himself like a sad old homeless man. Looking at the strippers. I sat down next to him right under some fat girls’ bootay and continued drinking. Playing pool in the back and requesting dumb rap songs on the jukebox.
We somehow started talking to a rando in the back - he said his name was “Adam” and formed part of the band “The Lights Out.” He also claimed that he knew about an afterparty to go to once this place closed in about half an hour. After all, he had just played a show in a huge arena.
With nothing to lose we get in the car and follow this guy’s directions to the “afterparty.” B was riding next to us on his bike and Adam kept yelling about what a cool bike rider he was - seriously, shut up.
We finally got to the location of the “afterparty” but it was just Pat and Geno’s. This place is bro-central South Philadelphia. The grease stains the air for miles. The annoying polos are visible in the bright neon lights of the fast food signs.
“We don’t want any fuggin cheese fries what the hell!!!” We started lamenting the fact that the afterparty was a total lie. I still had a couple beers left in the trunk so we busted them out and started drinking in the empty lot next to the gross steaks. Here we decided to mark our territory.
Flailing beer around without a worry in the world and mooning everyone in the steakhouse we peed all over the empty lot screaming and yelling into the October night.
We decided we had had enough of the bullsh*t and pushed down the backseats in my friends car to throw the bike in there. I rode in the back with the bike, trunk open, blasting disco into the sleeping neighborhoods, yelling at the top of our lungs like raging maniacs. My feet were dangling out the trunk and the car was bouncing up and down. We somehow made it up to North Philly alive.
We paraded the streets of North Philadelphia waving around a pack of beer we got somewhere. I don’t know how we got more.
After drinking the rest of them in my friends’ apartment I somehow fell asleep on the couch.
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That morning I woke up to the sound of a dog sniffing the air in direct proximity to my face. He jumped up on me and started licking my body.
“Oh god what the hell, I need water, holy god”
After getting up and using a flower vase as a cup I realized I was alone in this house and had no idea what to do. My friend had left early in the morning, my other friend was still asleep. So I just sat there with the dog for a while contemplating my hangover.
“What was that guy thinking?! An afterparty at Pat and Geno’s?”
My musings occupied me until my friend finally got up and we went wandering around the streets in a general haze of confusion. We got iced coffee from some place. We walked towards the Delaware river because there was a bunch of smoke rising from there.
“Is there a fire on the river? what the hell is that?”
We ended up passing out in a park where they were televising a football game.
Waking up under the hot sun, passed out on some asphalt I knew I was ready for night 2 of partying.
“I feel great now!”
To be continued….
Baltimore day 2: in which the layer of filth gains consciousness
So there I was: smelling like vomit in front of an art museum.
Obviously we went to eat pizza.
We stopped for another six pack of beers on the way to the free shuttle bus. It took us and the beers downtown to a place where I ate a small pizza and ended up ordering another. As the second one came around though I noticed an irritation in my stomach. I started drinking the beer slower.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!!?
My stomach felt like it was full of needles. My mouth started salivating like that of a rabid dog. My tongue was so drenched that I couldn’t speak. If I even opened my mouth streams of saliva would escape and slither down my body onto the floor.
“Drink the beer, it’ll help”
I still couldn’t open my mouth.
Frantically swallowing the spit it finally passed on its own and I managed to force myself to drink the 1.5 beers I still had left. At this point I was in extreme pain so I don’t know why I agreed to go to a bar, but we went.
This place was called Dionysus - so you know it’s gotta be good. It also reminded me and N of the time we tried to steal from Bacchanale back in Rome.
We went into a basement where we sat facing a wall and ordered some amber ales. The selection wasn’t helping my salivation problem.
Sitting at the table - staring at the beer. Not drinking it. It was abnormal. Something was definitely wrong.
“Girl, I need to go to the bathroom, I don’t know whether I’m gonna puke missiles or take the biggest shit of my life, but something is going down. See you in 20 minutes.”
At this point I already had puke crusted into my hair not to mention had slept in a vomited-in sleeping bag, was wearing a shirt I had slept in, was unwashed for days, and hadn’t looked in a mirror all day.
Lo and behold after purging my body of all of the “food stuff” that has none of the essential vitamins or minerals that are found in BEER I was fine and could drink more.
We stayed at this bar for a while in which time I drank more brews and accidentally insulted a Christian girl because I kept praising Satan.
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“You know any place open past 2?”
“Not really? I can call my friends see if anything is up. Or we can go to my friend’s place, he lives in a frat house”
“That sounds good, they probably party there.”
Boy was I deceived. The frat house was empty, devoid of life. People were in their dorms STUDYING. Nerds.
Obviously we went down to the basement, drank the free kegs, and plugged in my ipod to the speakers.
This basement was pretty gnarly. It looked like there had been some party and nobody ever cleaned up since 10 years ago. A layer of slime covered the floor - a mixture of beer, mud, human blood, and probably other bodily fluids I wont mention. Plastic cups littered the area and several glass bottles lay around on their sides in big puddles of urine.
We blasted black metal. Me and N had a show of strength in which she ended throwing me to the ground where I was coated in this black viscous liquid. We proceeded to smash all of the glass bottles against the cement walls into smithereens that would spray out in all directions and land all over the layer of muck.
A bro came down to the basement. I shook him around and yelled.
“WHY IS NOBODY DOWN HERE? THERE IS A PARTY! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT THERE IS A PARTY HERE? YOU HAVE TO DANCE!”
He stepped around in a confused state and hurried upstairs to safety.
Somehow we left too.
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So there I was: on a megabus the next day. Smelling like vomit, covered in slime, wearing the same clothes for days.
The items inside of my bag were limited to a toothbrush which I used once, and a plastic bag with a two-day-old puke inside of it.
Baltimore day 1: in which a layer of filth forms around me
All was according to schedule.
I got dropped off by the megabus on the outskirts of a giant parking lot. I could see a Macy’s somewhere in the distance.
The closest thing to the drop off stop seemed to be a Bertucci’s across a small highway. I set this up as the meeting location with N and made my first attempt at crossing the high-speed traffic. There were no people to be seen anywhere, this desert land had been abandoned to the machines that recklessly sped like bullets into the night.
With sandwich in hand I eventually mustered up the courage and made it to the Bertucci’s where I sat down in front of the door and gnawed savagely at the sausage sandwich I made that morning. It was there, as I was stuffing my face with the carnivorous delight that I saw a car approaching that didn’t look like a soccer mom van.
We drove through the streets of Baltimore and I looked up through the blown-out windows into the holes in roofs that gave a clear view of the night sky. Covered in nests.
The first order of business once I put my backpack on the floor was to drink some vodka and get the blood flowing. The ground was snow covered.
The evening took us first to a coffee shop where a live band was playing. We sat in the corner and drank beers in a booth. When we proceeded to a gay club after the show we were kicked out. I can’t explain why, nobody can. It just happened.
We decided to go with a group of women to a college sports bar. Here the bartender yelled at us for spending too much time in the bathroom. A girl was sick and went home. I drank her white wine. The bartender apologized for being such a hard-ass and offered us some shots. They made me go over the edge.
Like any normal traveler I always have the urge to “mark my territory.” By this time nothing could get the thought of peeing all over the streets of Baltimore, and hopefully writing my name out in the snow, out of my head. Running and stumbling over the freshly fallen snow we were drawn to a laundromat with a small stairway leading down to the entryway. We were visible to all, but that didn’t matter. Randos yelled at me as I made my pee-pee and I hissed at them like a small ferile rat. We took turns peeing all over the laundromat and once satisfied walked off towards the apartment.
We made one last stop at the subway and this is where it all took off.
“Extra onion…. extra mayo… oregano…. salt n’ peppa”
I don’t know what I said to the poor sandwich boy. I probably said “bread, mayo, onion, onion, onion, onion, onion, onion, salt peppa”
Once home I devoured the sandwich and all of the onions.
I didn’t feel sick when I lay down in my sleeping bag, it was only after about 20 minutes that I stood up straight with a violent urge to vom. I vommed into my hands a little and it trickled into my sleeping bag, all over my shirt, and into my hair a little. I made it to the bathroom for the next uprising.
I put the vom-covered shirt into a plastic bag and threw it in the corner of the room. I went to sleep in my vom-sleeping bag with vom still clinging to my hair. Didn’t care.
The next morning I still felt nauseated. As N cooked french toast for herself I attempted to puke into the toilet with no success so I sat on the couch moaning for a while. Finally she gave me a tums which I reluctantly swallowed. It was a small miracle. Rather than calm my stomach it irritated the organ to such an extent that I immediately vomited all over the toilet seat while maniacally laughing and crying tears of joy.
After this I felt confident enough to eat large quantities of Asian food.
Later this day we went to the art museum where I kept getting whiffs of vomit from the crust in my hair. At the coatcheck they gave me the chip “666.”
Night of the MANIACS
I have just returned from a strange and wondrous trip. The following took place only two nights ago but was one of the most beautifully terrifying experiences of my life.
I got dropped off in front of the venue, Emo’s East. The place was huge. Instead of going inside I went straight to the bratwurst stand right in front of the door and devoured a sandwich, dripping the curry ketchup and sourkraut all over my fingers and face. I stuffed the sandwich into my mouth and chewed the pieces into a mush with my bursting cheek pockets. It was the first thing I had eaten all day.
I realized I had forgotten identification and money, i was just walking around like a bum. So I just walked inside and absorbed the smell of other people’s beer. Tonight there were several artists making an appearance. The Spits and The Gories being the highlights. What started out as a mellow evening quickly descended into chaos once Thee Oh Sees were off the stage. Huge punks made 75% out of metal and india ink stomped onto the ground in front of the stage. The rage was magnificent, there were 30 minutes to go before the Spits even got on the stage and people were already lighting fireworks and screaming.
The fool that I am, I stood directly in the prime moshing area thinking that I could survive the imminent destruction. Someone poured an entire beer down my left side.
A maniac made a clearing about 5X5 feet and started pacing madly. He was huffing and grunting. His eyes had Satan in them. He looked like a caged panther, boiling with rage, seething with RABIES. He jerked his head and wild hair in my directions and set his psychotic gaze on me and screamed “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE TONIGHT!” He continued to pace until finally the rage escaped - he threw his arms wildly into the air and shook them, clawing the air, his hair flying in all directions spraying liquid into my eyeballs, the most horrendous and piercing scream came out of his gaping mouth.
I looked at the other people around me and began to tremble. They were all gigantic, muscly, shaved-headed, large-bearded, sweating out of their earholes. Some guy in front of me had a shirt that read “I love women, I love pussy, I live for sex.”
When they finally came on I immediately had five entire beers thrown onto my head. I was pushed out of the central moshing area and had to abandon it to the psychos. I stood behind a massive black punk who refused to move but instead would grab, lift, and throw anybody within reach of his Herculean arms.
Some guy gave me a beer but he was so drunk that he threw it on the floor accidentally instead of handing it to me.
I finally went outside just a bit before the Gories finished their set. I had to get all of my worldly belongings which were in a tour van that was due to depart without me. So I sat there in the lawn listening to the rest of the music with a blanket draped around me and a gym bag full of sweaty socks and chewed gum.
As I was sitting there bemoaning the fact that I had to carry around this dumb shit instead of being inside a punk with a vicious demeanor started charging at me. He had a wish and it was that I should die. I was sitting down so I just stared as he screamed and plowed through people to get at me. His eyes spelled certain death. About ten feet in front of me he tripped over his own feet and face-planted, then he passed out and stayed there eternally stretching his arm out threateningly towards me.
The panther maniac from before started rolling down the hill, his head hitting the pavement as he descended. A good Samaritan got him out of the street and into the grass. More people filed onto my area and passed out everywhere around me, they were dropping like flies.
Suddenly I realized that I was the center of a huge field of bodies - just lying there - emitting fumes. I started laughing maniacally at the image and the very concept that I had attracted all of these psychos to MY AREA.
I am queen.
Rats of the SKY
What have I been doing? Why are there no posts? I am accumulating gross moments to write about.
More importantly: I have a question for you.
Have you ever seen a baby pigeon? A pigeon nest? Even a pigeon youth?
No. And I will tell you why.
If you have ever examined the lives of pigeons as I or anybody who spends entire days on the street with nothing better to do, then you know that the life of a new pigeon begins in the spring time with their haggardly mating rituals. These mating dances are more akin to Satanic rites than anything related to romance. The male circles the female, his red eyes glowing with rape. His neck elongates and he puffs out his feathers letting several maggots fall out. The female will then try to escape, she feels traps by the lunatic circlings and attempts to fly away. She can only be lured by those males who let out the highest number of maggots which she attempts to eat - they are the bait.
Most attempts are unsuccessful since the male often times throws out a large amount of dirt and vomit-crust instead of maggots and the female pecks helplessly at the unfruitful ground.
If the male is successful he rapes the female making sure to do so in the most awkward situation possible. In front of a couple having a picnic in the park. Or in front of a baby taking his first steps. A preferred location is on a bench next to a nun.
Next the female must deposit the eggs into a sewer. Not just any sewer will do. The location must provide nutrients for the young, and most importantly - an instructor. Sewers with the highest amounts of feces flow yield strong and healthy young. The instructors are of course the pigeon’s friends the Rat. The rat will raise the young away from the rays of the sun where he can really develop a nice red eye color. The pigeon spends his childhood amidst the reeking waters learning how to sort through poops for food and how to splash around in dirty water to make himself as disgusting as possible. When the instructor believes him to be ready he lets him take flight.
The pigeon spends the rest of his days using his valuable lessons and thanking the humans who provided a stream of sewage for him to grow in by defecating on their heads as often as possible.
Flatbush Part 1
I don’t have a succinct memory of this night. Therefore I am opening it up to additions and filling. I am beginning with the only part that I feel comfortable attempting to retell. Strangely enough that is the end of the night rather than the beginning.
We had all been awake for far too long. We stumbled out of the house in Flatbush and began our journey to the subway station. As soon as we were a block away I started cursing to myself why why didn’t I just go to the bathroom before leaving? I already had to pee and I was over an hour away from my house. I called up my friend who lived in Brooklyn and convinced him to let me stay over at his house so that the next morning I could walk to work in two minutes rather than hike up for over an hour to the Upper West Side and back.
Even though I had made these arrangements I could feel that I wasn’t going to be able to hold in the waterfall for much longer.
We got onto the train all laughing and screaming, scaring the homeless people huddled up in the corners of the train car. Searching in my mind for some way to alleviate myself and prevent the inevitable disaster that would be peeing all over myself I figured there was only one thing to do.
I had to pee between the subway cars.
This was not safe, not only because it is never safe to be in the spot between two cars while the train is in motion, but also because I was drunk and would be crouching down and peeing into the rodent infested tunnels of underground New York, inches away from electrified rails, cat bones, noxious poisons etc. Nevertheless I had to brave it up. I left between Clark St and Wall St, a long underwater tunnel to optimize the time when the train would be between stations. How mortifying would it be to pull into a station while peeing on to the track, good heavens.
I ran over to the door and opened it, grabbed onto the rail with one hand as I undid my zipper and belt. There I was for a good 2 minutes exposed to the disgusting rancid air that sits staling in the tunnels between Brooklyn and Manhattan. I wobbled up and fixed myself up and re-entered the subway car amidst a round of applause.
Nosebleed Nightmares
The dark moisture settled around us as we swam through the crowd towards the bar.
“Due Long Island, Grazzz”
The tall glasses were appropriately filled 2/3 of the way with liquor and topped off with a splash of coke and lemonade. We quaffed the sugary mixture before stepping onto the dance floor, already covered in sweating bodies, and poured our own concoction into the glasses out of re-used water bottles from our purses and pockets.
Every time I have seen the Bloody Beetroots live they lived up to their name, we ended up full of blood and beat to a pulp. Having them play in such a small venue was probably the worst idea. As soon as the stage darkened and they stepped up to the tables, the crowd became an ocean. Fluid bodies propelling themselves across the room like particles of air in a cloud of steam.
I tried to stay together with B but the waves crashed over our heads and we were separated. I grabbed onto the skeletal railings that separated the crowd from the performers and I hoisted myself up to get a full view of the room. Everything buzzing and bobbing up and down - but then I spotted her.
Pushing through the crowd I tripped over legs and spilled glasses. Somehow someone stepped on the back of my shoe and I continued my search with one foot bare. When I found her there were cries of happiness and flailing of limbs. Pushing back into the sparkling backs around me, hair streaming jets of sweat, everything swimming in a puddle of confusion, total abandon.
An elbow jerked back. B got an elbowfull in the face and her nose became a fountain of life-giving blood. Me, still shoe-less and her spurting blood all over the both of us made our way as quickly as possible to the bathroom to clean up the mess.
There was a bouncer at the bathroom. Weird right? She yelled at us that there were too many people inside and we screamed back that B was bleeding and needed towels. She grudgingly let us in thinking that we were drug addicts. I didn’t realize that my foot was bare until I was in the bathroom stepping on a layer of piss with the thin skin on the bottom of my foot.
Blood was streaked down the front of her shirt and there were odd splatters on mine. Once we got the blood flow under control we high-fived, finished our porta drinks, wincing, stumbling, and ambled back to the mosh pit to try to punch the next person we could find right in the nose.
As for my shoe: After exiting the piss floor some lady walked up to me and gave me the missing item. I thanked her and put the stinky shoe right onto my piss foot without cleaning it or anything, I had probably already peed inside of it too many times for anything to matter.
The International Hairdressers
Just a normal night at Giganti. The bar was full of American tourists and the regular scumbags who came there on a nightly basis like me. It was conveniently close to my house, I wasn’t expecting this night to be any different from others when I went over for my nightly drink before sleeping on my grueling military cot springs. This night however I saw three outlandish characters sitting at a table. One had a Salvador Dali mustache extending in perfect curls to the extremities of his cheeks. Another was an Asian fellow with blue streaks in his hair and a hair style similar to David Bowie’s in the Labyrinth. The other was an older man in a crisp black shirt and a red smirk. Somehow I got to commenting on the fantastic mustache and a friendship with the trio immediately followed.
They were hairdressers from Los Angeles and were in Italy for an International Hairdressing competition. I hit it off immediately with these guys since they seemed to like drinking just as much as I do. The only difference was that these guys liked to spend a lot of cash. There was this attitude about them that screamed “I’m mothafuckin’ RICH y’all!!!”
They asked me if I would be so kind to be their guide the next day around Rome. I agreed for the adventure and the challenge. They asked me to make a dinner reservation at the fanciest restaurant in Rome and then take them to a fancy bar afterwards. The implication was that they would pay for me so I agreed and set about searching and asking around for nice places. Obviously I was completely unfamiliar with the territory being a poor college rat who scoured the city for the best deals on a daily hunt.
I asked my contemporary art teacher for a dinner recommendation. We ended up going to a place called “Agatha e Romeo” by the Santa Maria Maggiore church. I was so uncomfortable it was really something else. I was wearing my roommate’s strapless dress that needed some serious ironing and my other roommates extra large fake leather jacket. The people who took your coats at the door shriveled up their noses as I handed it to them, they could immediately tell that everything I was wearing was from Target and that I had just showered before coming after being on a week-long anti showering streak.
I didn’t know what anything on the menu was. I was supposed to translate it for them but how am I supposed to know what “sweetbreads” are in Italian let alone what it is?
So I just ordered some random stuff off the menu and some gnocchi, even though I don’t even like gnocchi, at least I knew what I was getting. They ordered some fancy Greek wine that was smashed with old lady feet and cost 300 euro. I drank it and kept thinking about the fact that I couldn’t taste the difference between it and the bum wine I bought at Tuodi earlier that day for a euro fifty. I ate the food and it was good but I could’ve gotten something similar at Miraggio’s where they would’ve given me free limoncello shots to top it off and a high five for starters.
It didn’t matter because they enjoyed it.
Next I took them to a weird art bar where you can buy expensive wine and look through Vice magazine at the same time. I couldn’t drink any more wine my stomach felt sick. They closed that bar lamely early because rich people don’t know how to party.
At this point, a bit tipsy and ready to rage I was at the point where I didn’t care bout nothin’. So these dudes were going to come with me, in what had now turned into pouring rain to one of the dirtiest parts of Rome: Testaccio at night.
I felt absolutely ridiculous. Wearing this dumb dress, this stupid jacket. I should have been in my usual grandma sweater that looked like I had taken it out of the trash can earlier that day, my “party shoes” that were so caked in mud and piss that you could smell them just being in the same room. Alas, there I was in these heels that I couldn’t even walk in. The only thing was to avoid any place where I could be seen by people I knew. I took the hairdressers to a random gay bar where I had never been before. I ordered lots of drinks to shoo away my embarrassment. I started acting crazy. I made them all dance and pushed everyone around. I put glittering streamers in my hair and asked them if the style looked good on me.
At first I thought they would hate me for taking them there. The place was dirty and cheap. The rain had ruined their hairdos. There wasn’t even a coat check. The floor was littered with spilled drinks and mud. People were dancing around pool tables and smoking cigarettes inside. It turned out this was their favorite part of the night!
This is when I learned to be true to my nature. I swore never again to let myself be pressured into going to fancy places and pretending to be comfortable wearing these ridiculous clothes. Nobody wants that anyway, people just want to rage and rack up destruction.
I ended up back to where I always have been, after eating a meal that racked up a bill of well over 500 Euro, drinking Shiraz at the art bar, I ended up just coming back to my animal senses. I wound up drinking nasty long islands and Peroni. I ended up crawling on the floor, dancing with the devil, and passing out on my military cot and waking up in the morning firmer in my disbelief in humanity.
Hasta luego Hairdressers, see ya never!
Drugs and Bath Tubs and the 7/11
The hours between 2 AM and sunrise are always of a rather strange, lucid quality; this is the time in which weirdos become the majority of the living and wakeful, and they freely roam the streets as the individuals who cling to the false-safety of a supposed normality doze off into a dull, useless sleep. I admit that as I age, I am often forced to give into the disadvantages of maturity, the aches and sleepiness and memory loss, and must more frequently miss the ghastly occurrences that transpire in these eerie nighttime landscapes.
About a year ago, I was far more of an energetic youth, at the ripe age of twenty, and frequently stayed up past midnight. At this stage in my life, I did not only witness the pervasive weirdness, but was its frequent and dependable participant. As I am presently devoted to an all too regular sleeping schedule and a series of far more mundane obligations, (not to mention a general laziness that often keeps me bound to my couch desiring little more than a cup of instant noodles) I often long for the return of the craziness, and think of ways in which I can replicate its presence.
A year ago, some rand-o with whom I was unacquainted had gotten into some sort of injury, and was drunkenly passing out medicine prescribed for his relief at a party. Percocet, to be more specific. In a drunken stupor, I swallowed the pill with two of my friends, unaware (and frankly uncaring) of its effects.
That evening came to consist of a three hour long bath in which we all shaved our legs and repeatedly shampooed our heads. This took up the bulk of the night, and continued as the rest of the house’s residents fell into their slumbers. At four AM, we began craving cigarettes and - oddly enough - energy drinks to fight off an encroaching, collective sense of exhaustion. It made have made logical sense to simply go to sleep, but at this point, I had come to reinvent sleep as an ever-present enemy, an arbiter of sense and sanity that I no longer wanted in my life. I only wanted to be completely and totally insane, disassociate myself from whatever “Reality” the outside world contained, and scare everyone who did not want to tolerate it away. If I could have, I would have limited my life only to the nighttime hours, continuing my hungry prowl for madness.
We walked to a 7/11 on the edge of our town where we purchased the goods. We were all dressed in over-sized clothes, barefoot, with our hair and bodies dripping soggy bath water - slouching silhouettes charred by the sun’s slow emergence. After chain-smoking Marlboro Reds and downing Dr. Peppers and Monsters, we collapsed onto a nearby bench, slowly realizing that these substances had little effect - we were seconds away from sleep.
Suddenly, a man walked up to us and offered us $10. We rejected it at first, realizing that our disoriented and messy states construed us as the local craze-os. We did not need the money, we needed to go to sleep. But the man insisted, and gave us the ten dollar bill, which was shoved into some random baggy pocket, never to be seen again.
On the walk home, we nearly fell asleep in the many front lawns we passed, tempted by the lush green grass and wooden porch swings. We swerved across the streets, zigzagging from curb to cub. When we finally made it back, the three of us slept in a miniscule, single bed, bodies crunched into one another. Sleep came almost automatically. Thankfully, sanity did not.
When we awoke in the morning, we yelled “Help!” from our beds until we were brought a huge tub of yogurt, which we consumed with a knife-sharpener. We read Spice Girls fan fiction on the Internet, and continued to visit an old peoples’ community. Everything felt dense. Since then, I have had a number of experiences with Percocet; thankfully, most of them have also involved baths.
