Chopping a half a gram line in the bathroom of what could be qualified as, "the true central Florida beach-side-sports-bar-experience" can be a thrill.
Drinking pitchers of beer with what could pass as one of the roaming gangs of bikers-cum-cannibals in a wasteland fashioned after some hot, leather-clad, Mel Gibson movie can be annoying.
Stepping outside to your own ambient body temperature being so much higher than the air around you, that you steam.
Wiping semen on your shorts moments before you step to the stage can vacate your performance anxiety, at least long enough to make it up there.
Minutes after you leave the bar, an epic battle erupts time and time again.
Every time I've ever seen the inside of that bar, some of the most amazing nights I've ever been apart of took place.
I never felt bad about fucking that girl in the bathroom, but for some terrible reason I could never bring myself to brag. The words always failed me. Which is to say...
I felt bad about fucking the girl in the bathroom.
She bought me shoes a couple shows later. Or it might have been the same night.
I can't remember to save my life, but when I finally came clean about it, she'd already taken the credit. Leaving me with shame, like a 2nd place trophy.
Damn it.
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