New Orleans is Sinking, Cause I’m a Fat Bag of Garbage That Eats 3 Beignets at Every Meal

That Tragically Hip song is actually really good. Actually, The Tragically Hip is really good. I kinda feel bad about all the shit I’ve talked over the years. Whatever. I would fly to The Mississippi Delta during hurricane season, when an actual hurricane is pounding people 2 states over. Look out everyone, Ol’ Two Tits is drunk in a foreign city again…

I’m drinking bud light/water out of a cup shaped like a butt, FYI

But the weather was actually amazing. Hot today. Hot yesterday too. Probably be hot again tomorrow. I’m at my best when I’m wearing all black, and am sweaty and uncomfortable. So this was the best trip ever. Displaced Floridians were vacationing with the native New Orleans-ians and the drunk, tourist-ing Canadians. Drinking sweet tea, fanning yourself on the front stoop of your cute little Marigny – French Quarter shotgun house. This is 34 – going on another vacation, getting bombed everyday, then bitching to anyone who will listen to you, about the weather.

It was a bucket list thing to stay in a traditional New Orleans shotgun house (I have a fucking lame bucket list guys) and the experience didn’t disappoint. Dead bugs and all. Fun fact: about 15 years ago, I wasted 8 hours on a Sunday evening/Monday morning reading about traditional Louisiana architecture on this new fangled website known as Wikipedia. For reasons I’m still clueless about, I was fucking enamored with the shotgun house, and made it a lame life goal to stay in one. The design, the simplicity, the functionality made the experience. An adequate accommodation, at a reasonable price. Believe in your dreams kiddos, you never know when they’ll come true.

Speaking of dreams, see post title. Beignets for breakfast, beignets for lunch, beignets for dinner, beignets for brunch. 3 beignets after every meal. I am a fat bag of garbage. 100% worth the diabetes and heart disease though.

Dipping my feet in important bodies of water has also become a bucket list thing (again, it’s a fucking lame bucket list). Spoiler alert: The Mississippi feels just like all the others. Wet.

I like my history, art, lingerie, girls eyes, coffee, touristy activities etc. as dark as possible. There’s likely nothing darker than hopping a brick wall and illegally hanging out in graveyards on a Saturday afternoon.


…and then I died.

Later NOLA, it was a time.


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