I’m sitting on a pigeon crap-encrusted bench with THAT friend. The one you only see once every few years. You know, the one that arrives like a tornado. I’m outside a Subway at 5:17 am. I’m muttering “I said no fucking onions.” 90% of the digits needed to call the girl who was selling Jell-O shots are written on my arm. My left Adidas Gazelle is saturated with urine — and NOT my own. My baseball cap is missing. My shirt is ripped from a scuffle with a minor league baseball team. The sun is beginning to rise.
And I am already looking forward to that friend’s next visit.
(If you want an actual review, Klosterman nailed it here.)