I’m not a saint, nor do I presume upon these words, or clamor in their revelry.  I say this because during a lovely evening at Europa, where “rape-dancing” is actually legal, Ms. Erwin politely said “Monica and I read your column and thought you were a total douchebag”. Luckily for me, I had not hit the “I’m-too-drunk-to-not-stare-at-your-breasts” phase of my alcoholism. Therefore, looking her in the eyes, I cordially explained the column was mostly fiction and for comedic effect, and that even though at the moment I smell like a fresh abortion, I try not to offend anyone (except midgets, or “God’s little mistakes” as I call them).

Before I proceed, I must inform you about an experience I had at Lizzards earlier in the night. Actually, to call it an experience does not do it justice. Guzzling numerous jager bombs and making out mid-bar with a girl whom your friends nickname “horse-face” is an experience. Waking up in Lloyd’s room wearing nipple clamps and smelling like CK1 is an experience. I’m talking about something greater, a moment where the familiar numbness of existence opens up and God says “peek-a-boo, I love you”.  I was engaged in a conversation with Mike V, and like any other conversation with him, I was laughing and my pants were full of urine. Then, without breaking eye contact, his hand darted into the crisp night air, and quickly returned. Again, eye contact had not been broken. In his palm, a butterfly. In my eyes, tears. It was beautiful, like making love to a Hanna Montana song, it just felt right. I promised never to talk about that moment we shared, but if Daddy taught me anything, promises are meant to be broken, and cheated on, and slapped if they talk back.

Later on, after Europa thankfully made us leave, we ventured to a house party. I would have enjoyed the generous late night in South Hampton, but as we Americans discovered in WWII, Europeans are f-cking worthless. At this house, there was a hairy Italian playing guitar and an Englishman eating spotted dick or something, I don’t really know what dirty Euros are into, but what I do know, is that I don’t trust anyone who carries a rail pass. I tried to talk to the incomparable Welsh, but she was too busy being awesome and pounding a couple Bud-heavy’s. Therefore, Nick and I got in my car, or the Wagon of Funk as I like to call it, and retired into the drizzle of a night (ie, fatted out at Whataburger).

-Jeter