i really did write this on a friday night, but couldn’t remember how posting works.

Well, it’s Friday night and I’m drunk on U Street, which means it’s either a half-smoke at Ben’s Chili Bowl or a jumbo slice and I’m not standing in that line today, I’m in a hurry to get home and watch Part 3 of Prohibition with my amazing and delicious jumbo slice. I’m all about the Drunken Ken Burns Experience.

Actually, I just thought of that right this minute but it sounds hilarious. Probably because I’m drunk, but I can’t be sure. See earlier part of last sentence.

There are way too many damn varieties of jumbo slice in this shop but I know I’m just going basic pepperoni so I should get through there pretty soon. It’ll wreck my diet – somehow I gain 3 pounds immediately after eating pizza, I don’t really understand how that works scientifically but it is absolutely true – but I’m drunk on U Street on a Friday night and that’s the way it goes.

Isn’t it weird how you make specific associations with specific neighborhoods? You’d think jumbo slice would be my intoxicated association with 18th Street in Adams Morgan – and you’re not entirely wrong, it’s there and I’ve certainly gone down that road before –except that for many years my food of choice on drinking nights in Adams Morgan was falafel. Falafel and fries, sitting on the steps outside the shop and sobering up enough to remember that I have my early class in the morning and shit! what am I still doing here?! Screw it, I’m sleeping in. Who cares about Property Law anyway. Way too many nights, falafel and fries. Drunk on 18th Street and that’s the way it goes.

Later, when Adams Morgan was too young for us, filled with college students vomiting into the gutters and randomly running into traffic, we stopped going down 18th Street on weekend nights and ventured no further south than Columbia. We’d meet early for dinner at Mixtec, agree we would share only one pitcher of mango margaritas, remind each other that they were very strong and we were Serious Adults now and Shouldn’t Drink So Much, and three hours and three to four pitchers later would be tripping over curbs and heckling innocent homeowners on the walk to the Woodley Park Metro (oh, you know who you are). Last New Year’s Eve, though, we went to a party at a friends and then notice, next door, a different party, thrown by strangers, which had an ice luge on the back porch. Somehow we thought it advisable to not only crash this party, but drink a plethora of shots of dodgy liqueurs through aforementioned ice luge and then play several rounds of beer pong with gin since we didn’t know where they were keeping the beer.

We were later thrown out of this party.

We broke out into a 4-minute dance party while trying to get our coats on, I lost an earring, Katie lost her handbag, someone threw up out a car window, I forget who, but we agreed we required a late night food run on the way home. For sentimental reasons Katie & Laura made a special request for falafel and fries, since they are more recent college students than I or our designated driver (Other Half, being even more patient than usual) and have fond though definitely hazy memories of other drunken nights on 18th Street. I stepped out of the car on Columbia Street, tripped on the sidewalk and fell into a flowerbed, and as I laid there dreamily gazing up into the trees overhead I thought, how odd. Usually when I am this drunk in Adams Morgan, I’ve been in Mixtec all evening. That’s my main thought. I should have Mexican food right now. But it was 3 am and only the falafel shop is open, so it was back to my roots. Drunk on 18th Street, falafel and fries. That’s the way it goes.

Tonight, though, it’s only minutes for my jumbo slice and then a cab home. Bring on the Drunken Ken Burns Experience.

PS. Is it ironic I’m going home to watch a documentary on Prohibition? Does that mean something?



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