Boston and I have a serious love-hate relationship.
It’s home to several people that I care about and has arguably some of the best brunch spots in America. However, every single time I visit, I leave with a firm “okay seriously, that was the last time” mindset. The hangovers, driving that evokes my road rage, and alerts from my bank letting me know that I’ve successfully overdrawn my account all make for a less than desirable ride home. But then, a few months later, I again find myself spending a weekend there visiting friends or celebrating a special occasion. This one was a biggie: One of the last bachelorette celebrations in my circle of close friends.
(Yours truly, holding up the caboose, hayyy).
Anytime our group gets together, it’s pretty much a mess. Exhibit A: Our last round of gallivanting through the city involved Jacques Cabaret, a “Jingle Bells” karaoke performance (in September), running home in bare feet, and waking up extremely parched in a bed of pork fried rice #killedit. This time around was only slightly different. A legit 12-hour drinking binge resulted in the bride puking at dinner and me drunkenly swaying in a night club at 1:45am, trying to figure out why the F it was still open. Is anyone else in this city 31 and exhausted? I ended up Irish-goodbying that scene and making a beeline for the hotel, narrowly escaping a face plant on Tremont street along the way. Making memories here, people.
As expected, we all woke up the next morning in strong form. The bride puked again, I woke up in popcorn kernels from our 3am snack, and one of the girls headed home early without her shoes. On the way home, I made an emergency pit-stop at Dunkin’s and am now recovering on my parents’ couch while my dad gives me a sideways look whenever I try to form sentences. Also, he just informed me that we are going OUT to dinner for my sister’s birthday and that I could have chosen a better outfit than my Christmas leggings.
And that’s about all I can muster up for a Sunday post. You win again, Boston.