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Sometimes, judging can come in handy

6 Aug

I overheard a pack of girls talking behind me today.

“He goes, ‘I will pay you five thousand dollars to spend the night with me.’ and she was like ‘Ew, no, you’re the ShamWow guy.’ “

This happened on my way down to the beach at Horsetooth Reservoir outside of Fort Collins, Colorado, which is about 20 minutes from where I now live as of 4 days ago. ..More on that later.


It got me thinking about this ShamWow guy. I’m sure you know who he is; the guy seems to have a neck-craning tendency along with just having a troublesome face in general, plus those eyebrows. I’m guessing he was probably the kid who sat in the middle of his seventh grade class drawing unicorns while all of the cool kids sat in the back flinging spitty pieces of paper at the back of his neck, which actually might explain the craned neck tendency.


Anyway, I thought to myself, “It’s really no surprise that Mr. ShamWow tried to bribe a 20-something girl from Colorado into having sex with him. He kind of looks like a d*ck, and probably has a lot of free time on his hands outside of filming ShamWow commercials in which to bribe young girls and snort cocaine.”

At that moment, I learned something about myself: I am a seriously judgmental motherf*cker. I’m not sure exactly when I became like this, but it may have started the day that I got punched by a drunk homeless guy while I was waiting for the bus at a train station. We had been “talking” about his radio (he had been sputtering on about “FM” and “radio”) and I got tired of saying “What? I can’t really understand you” when I guess he got mad and decided to take it out on my face. I stood up and yelled “WHY DID YOU DO THAT,” ran inside and started crying like a baby… he staggered across the highway towards the Motel 6 while I sat in the back of the police car, still crying.

After that, I no longer bought candy bars for smelly people standing outside of 7-11’s, or made eye contact with kids my age sitting on a sidewalk with a dog and a cardboard sign. Basically, drunken radio-man made me assume that all homeless people were threats that should be avoided.

Due to being brainwashed by Catholic high school, it’s always been in the back of my mind that judging people is BAD. It’s just something that stuck around because maybe I agreed with it as a moral thing rather than a religious teaching. (Please note that I’ve been an atheist since about 10th grade).


But sometimes judging can come in handy. Like when you want to determine whether someone is white trash, you can use these visual cues:

white trash

I’ve been known to attend white trash parties

White Trash Checklist

Clothing: Bud Light/Coors Light swag, sleeveless tee-shirt, denim carpenter shorts positioned low on the hips, bikini top + cutoffs when 20+ miles outside of swimming areas

Accessories: Wallet chain, cigarette behind ear, hunting hat, Sketchers sneakers, Busch Light can, bicep tattoo or tramp stamp, belly button piercing + overweight, “sport” sunglasses

Activities: Feeding soda to children, listening to Creed, buying cigarello’s at Tedeschi’s, referring to a cigarette as a “butt”, hanging out at Wendy’s

Or if you want to know whether someone will make a good boyfriend or girlfriend:

Problematic Significant Other Checklist

Activities: Recycles stuffed animals from past relationships for new relationships, works part-time, fights with parent(s) in front of you, lives with parents

(Unfortunately, I formed these assumptions AFTER breaking up with the guy that helped me form them.. so they came a bit too late. But they’re definitely useful for the future.)

So… I don’t feel so bad about being judgmental anymore. After reflecting, most of my judgments are actually keeping me safer by helping me avoid punches in the face, white trash, and unappealing boyfriends. And that’s just fine with me.


Even Homeless People Need a Coffee Break; and Other Things I Learned on my Eurotrip

13 Jul

That Fateful Day - see bulletpoint #3

Oh hello, I’m back from my 2-month Eurotrip. Back to reality where money has to be made rather than spent on French wine, inflated museum admissions, and Croatian conditioner, the latter which I mistakenly used as shampoo for about 2 weeks. Feats accomplished:

  • Accidently visited a male strip club/potential gay brothel in Rome
  • Realized that sour cream does not compliment a day at the Croatian beach (should have gone with the container that said “Jogurt”
  • Was homeless with a guy named Jeff for 22 hours in Croatia. He wasn’t homeless; we got separated from our two friends who had the address and directions to the apartment we rented. Though I write this now in good humor, let me just say that you would probably never want to get lost overnight in a foreign country while wearing a little black dress. That being said, here is the postcard that I wrote to my best friend while Jeff and I were taking a homeless coffee break.

Sunset over the Adriatic Sea - Photo by Me - For Actual Postcard Please Visit

JUNE 12, 2010

The arrow that you see on the front of this postcard is where I slept this morning from 6 to 8am today. Yes, this means that June 11th, the day of my birth, was spent walking the streets of Zadar in Croatia (never go here) trying to find the location of the obscure

Aw, look how happy I was just hours before wanting to KILL MYSELF

“B&B” where we paid for 2 nights, without an address or street name, only the first name of the 62 year-old proprietor “Jozo” who we met at a bus station upon arrival in Zadar (don’t go here). The night began swimmingly with wine and bread and cheese, and I saw my first sunset over a sea — the Adriatic. Myself and a Canadian named Jeff left our 2 friends to use the banya, and that’s when we last saw them. However, our friends were kind enough to leave us our bottle of wine (minus half) and a pack of cigarettes, which would sustain us for the next 15 hours of wandering the city. We still haven’t found our friends. We don’t know where we’re sleeping tonight. I love you, wish I talked to you on my birthday. [Then I bought a phone card and called her]

  • Decided I hate Croatians At Work:

Croatian Taxi Driver: “My shift, it is over. You must go. I will leave you here” [at a random neighborhood bar miles away from town]

Croatian Train Worker, Job Description Unknown: [Enters train compartment, mutters something in Croatian, I pull out my ticket and give it to her]. “Passport.” [Eyes close halfway in annoyance. I give her my passport.] “You must take off your shoes before you put on the seat.”  I completely agree. These chairs are nearly spotless, there are definitely no pen marks or mysterious streaks of brown crud embedded into the casino carpet -colored upholstery.

And any attempt to order a coffee from a Croatian Barista has been an absolute sham. The response to “espresso with cold milk” or “espresso with milk and ice” — even spoken in Italian — is always “No.” Is there a run on ice in Croatia?

"Really? Did you really just flip me the bird? And get down from there, don't even pretend like we're the same height, because we're not"

  • Saw major French penis at a nude beach then bought some pretty perfume
  • Rode the train through Tuscany listening to this Ludacris song
  • Had an affair with Italian chips
  • Decided against kidnapping a stray dog in Venice and naming him Ciao

Of course, while travelling I Found Myself blah blah blah — no, but mostly the trip emphasized something I had learned a couple years ago while travelling within the US. No matter where you go, everything is exactly the same. Whether you’re in Massachusetts, North Carolina, or Arizona, shopping plazas are the watering hole of suburbia, Walmart is always down the street and you’re never completely lost until you don’t hit a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts after 5 minutes of driving. It’s good to get the f–k out of the US every once in awhile, or at least once in a lifetime. I personally can’t wait to go back. :)

Manarola, one town in the Cinque Terre, Italy

Trevi Fountain, Rome

Hot Dog only 3,50 - Street Food in Paris

Cape d'Ail, my favorite beach in the South of France

Noli, a beach in Liguria Italy

Tourist-Bombing in Europe

6 Jun

*Note to US officials: I am not a terrorist nor am I in any way affiliated with Al Qaeda. The phrase is catchy, that’s all.

This post is dedicated to Kevin-Raphael who works at Ivanhoe Hostel in Rome, who spent some of his nightshift last night reading this blog. Ivanhoe Hostel is a place where dreams are sewn onto clouds in golden thread, and every so often a breeze through the window or down the street brings just the faintest aroma of sewage. Having a shower here means hoping for a tolerable medium between scalding hot and ice cold water, which would be bearable if either temperature were evenly distributed over a wide spray rather than in a single firehose.

I’m on my fourth city of eight on my solo Eurotrip to France and Europe. So far I haven’t flashed anyone or done body shots, though I have accidently visited a nude beach on the French Riviera and stumbled upon the apparent cultural norm that it’s okay to fondle one’s penis while sunning oneself. Not that I fondled my own penis, that would be weird. Because I don’t have a penis silly!

It was in Pisa last week that I had a revelation. In between taking the tourist money shot (‘holding up’ the leaning tower of Pisa) with two girls from New Zealand that I met on the train, I started stealing pictures of other people awkwardly doing the same thing. It’s quite easy because you know you’re never going to see them again, and anyway they probably just think you’re trying to get a unique angle on the Coloseum or whatever the nearest tourist trap might be. Anyway, I started taking pictures of posing tourists, except from my angle it just looked like they were cupping invisible breasts while making their face look retarded. And I didn’t stop there. I found an old guy slouched over with 40 pounds of travel accessories, fannypack included, resting his Teva’d feet. I found someone who was making a face like the Stink Eye girl in Mean Girls. I guess you could say my revelation was that that day I discovered the best travel game that provides hours (minutes) of entertainment even under the worst possible tourist conditions. Maximum capacity trainrides laced with B.O., freakishly tall Germans with no spacial understanding of where their collossal feet and mine begin, little Spanish/French/Italian women that have wordlessly designated the sidewalk a one-way street for their family of 4 unruly children (it’s okay, I like the prospect of death by vespa in Italy, the title alone would make a good post-humous biography).

You might be wondering why I’m describing photos instead of posting them. Long story short, the computer here at the hostel may or may not be telling me in Italian that there’s no space on it’s disk, so you’ll just have to use your imagination.

Other notable tourist-bombs I’ve done so far are snapping a black Santa Clause getting some sun on the beach in Nice, France, and most recently today I sat and watched people pose with a statue of Julius Caesar pointing his arm up to the sky (can you guess how they posed? I bet you can’t guess). Snap, your stupid Facebook default picture is going in my photo album, bitchessss.

With four more places to go, I’m excited about the endless embarrassing moments I can capture on film in about a month more of travel. Croatia’s next; we’ll see what happens there. I honestly have no idea about Croatian people or culture, but I’m hoping people there will be a bit Borat in nature. Yakshimash!

The Italian equivalent of Engrish:

And proof that other tourists are generally bad at taking their own kind’s photos.

Last Night at the Rodeo

14 Mar

In case I didn’t mention it, I’ve been in Texas this past week for spring break. I’m here in Dallas visiting my cousins, partly to get some sun, and partly to see if this is where I want to move to when I break out of the death grip that is college this May. So far I love it here. We visited Austin last weekend (more on that later), and spent the rest of the week in Dallas.

I feel that I’ve accomplished a lot this past week. First, I’ve realized that not everyone in Texas is fat. Austin is teeming with runners, and I actually have grown so accustomed to seeing thin people in Dallas that I do a double-take when someone larger walks by. Which I’m not sure is an accomplishment, but whatever. Second, I’ve forged a relationship with my cousin’s two cats — a major feat because the older one, Rascal, is apparently a punk ass bitch to most people. I feel special. Oh. Two accomplishments might not be “a lot” on paper, but it was in my mind. But onto the rodeo topic.

Being my last weekend in Texas, my cousin Laura bought us 2 tickets to the rodeo. This entailed using lots of hair spray, squeezing into tight flared jeans (which I haven’t done since I was 17), and layering on the eye makeup. I felt like we were going to an 8th grade dance.

We drove to Mesquite, Texas, ended up at a dark, empty building (wrong night), and turned around and drove 50 minutes in the opposite direction. We ended up at Billy Bob’s in Fort Worth, where we paid $12 to see Billboard’s newest sweethearts, Micky and the Motorcars. After seeing several cowboy hats, 2-steppers, and a girl in a baby tee, we decided to check out the rest of Fort Worth. = Sup tumbleweeds. Really, if you can avoid the city, do so please.

All in all, thanks for sitting through my anticlimactic story. I’ll have more interesting things to write about at a later date, when I’m not salivating over a Boboli pizza cooking in my cousin’s oven.

No Gay Cowboys Here

15 Jul

Here in eastern North Carolina, I often get made fun of for reacting to things (such as the beach) like a toddler during her first ride on the teacups at the carnival. You know, she’s so exciting she’s shaking, and she can’t speak? Well, this weekend I drove 5 hours out west with a friend and saw my first, real, live, actual mountain range. Enter: The Blue Ridge Mountains.


We climbed the oldest and tallest geezer called Grandfather Mountain. The hardest, longest hike to the top peaks began with a walk across the Mile-High Swinging Bridge, which was slightly disappointing because it didn’t swing at all! I mean come on, I wanted danger! It was very foggy, windy and cool when we walked across I frolicked across and my friend Rex laughed at me.



Next up was the intense 4-hour hike to the peaks. What I liked most about it besides the views from the top of the peaks was the change in temperatures, and of course the fresh air. At “the bottom” (5282 feet) of the trail, the air was humid and warm inside the trees. At the top (around 5500 feet), it was still warm inside the IMG_0050trees but one step to the edge of the cliff and it was cold and really windy! Being a Northerner, that was refreshing after spending a few months in the humid South.

Before hiking Grandfather Mountain, Rex and I camped out at Linville Falls, a small national park off the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway. It was a tiny hike out to these beauties.


We “failed to see” the NO SWIMMING signs and put on our bathing suits. But alas, it was too cold. What, you say? A Northerner thinking Southern waters are too cold?! I know right, who AM I these days? Nah, but in the end what was stopping me from plunging in was the slimy rock that I would have to make foot contact with. ::shudder:: Anyway, what I liked most about the falls was the other side which totally wants to be a siiiiick waterslide with its 45-foot drop.


So that’s my time spent in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I was really really sad to leave. Can’t wait to visit the Smokies next!

Spring Break in Manhattan

15 Mar

dsc003352After biking across the Brooklyn Bridge, Greg and I bike-laned our way over to Canal Street. I believe I was misled by the stereotype that all Asians ride bikes – because quite a few Asian shopkeepers frowned at our bikes taking up their precious sidewalk space. Next time I visit I might “accidentally” ride my bike into a couple tables of plastic sunglasses and pashmina scarves…

A sidestreet off of Canal Street

A sidestreet off of Canal Street


And just a suggestion – thou shalt spellcheck before engaging in graffiti.

After sadly returning the bikes, we visited Central Park. Unfortunately, we did not see any jogging Phoebe Boufays.

dsc00326But we did visit Strawberry Fields, where I sniped a picture of Greg looking retarded hipster in aviators and the jacket Jimmy stole from some poor shmuck at The Pourhouse. And Greg sniped a couple pictures of me just looking retarded in general.


I is a hat!


After this, we visited the Met (Metropolitan Museum of Art) because I had been there once before and left feeling like I hadn’t even seen 1/10  of it. (That’s what happens when you’re the only person in your family who enjoys art.)

This shrine from the Middle Ages made me laugh, because…



It pissed me off that when heading north from Downtown, there were fewer train stops. Probably because all the rich people in Midtown & Uptown don’t want all the “normal people” clogging up their Starbucks’. Greg and I never took a cab – because there was no need to. The trains are easy to use, and walking is really the best way of exploring a city, anyway. Plus we didn’t want to spend all our money on transportation. We’d rather spend it on food in Brooklyn…

In conclusion,

Brooklyn > Manhattan

A tree DOES grow in Brooklyn

13 Mar


Yes! Now I don’t have to read the book…

It was Day Three of staying in a hostel in Brooklyn when I realized why there was trash all over the streets. CATS. The manager of our hostel refers to these cats as “lions” – they’re scruffy, giant city-cats who team up in the wee hours and tear into trash bags, carrying chicken bones and Golden Krust wrappers onto the sidewalks and streets.

Other than the trashy streets, I have fallen in love with Brooklyn. Our skin color made us stick out, but we were friendly and everyone was friendly right back. We walked daily to Fulton Street to eat and catch the C train to Manhattan.

Fulton Street (C Train to Franklin St.)
Fulton Street (C Train to Franklin St.)

You can smell Fulton Street a block away because of the hundreds of amazing and cheap Caribbean, West Indian, and soul food joints. There must have been a sale on yellow signs because they’re everywhere. I had a couple of spicy jerk chicken co-patties ($1.50/ea) and Greg had jerk chicken at Golden Krust (a Caribbean fast food chain). We ate a $3.50 breakfast two mornings in a row at a diner owned by a Portuguese family. I had THE BEST macaroni and cheese of my life at a soul food kitchen (C Train to Throop) accompanied by the cutest “Hi, honay” and “What can I getcha, baybeh?”

I bought a pair of new Nikes and Adidas sneakers on Fulton St. for $20/each. They’re ridiculous-looking and I love them. We also went to the Goodwill where I found a bunch of new, pretty dresses that were too big :( I found a brand-new black leather handbag and paid a whopping $7 for it.

It was a genius idea of Greg’s to rent bikes and ride all over Brooklyn & Manhattan. We rented two Schwinns in Brooklyn’s DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) at Recycle a Bicycle. It was only $30 for a 24 hour rental including a helmet and lock! Do you love my sweet windburn?


We got “pulled over” and ID’d by two cops in Brooklyn for biking on the sidewalk…so after that we had to bike on the street. It was scary at first but a ton of fun. We biked over the Brooklyn Bridge and navigated through crowded Canal Street, which is essentially hundreds of stores selling the exact same crappy handbag and pair of sunglasses.


My favorite park in Brooklyn

My favorite park in Brooklyn

The view from Grimaldi's

The view from Grimaldi's

After waiting a half-hour in the line outside, we ate “the best Brooklyn pizza” at Grimaldi’s. No. No way. The pizza was SO bland! The sauce was begging for a bucket of spices to be dumped on it. I am what one might call a Crust Maverick, and I left their bland crust on my plate for awhile (then ate it because I was bored and still hungry.) After not being impressed by “the best Brooklyn pizza” I officially began my quest for the REAL best Brooklyn pizza. (Coming soon to Bravo, brought to you by the creators of The Real Housewives of Orange County/New York City/Atlanta.) My second try for good Brooklyn pizza was at a Jewish pizza shop on Fulton Street…FAIL. This might just be a lifelong quest. For now I’ll stick with my town’s own Holbrook House of Pizza as my personal favorite pizza.

Last, I really must plug Pedro’s, a Mexican/Spanish/American casual restaurant/bar in DUMBO. Please ignore the “I-have-a-tamale-up-my-ass” reviews on Yelp, because this place has intense cheese tamales ($6 for 2) and salsa and a cool atmosphere – we came back twice. I wish we went back there at night. Below is the exterior, and if someone can find me this stencil I will give you $4.



So that’s the rundown on Brooklyn. My next post will be about Manhattan. Thanks for reading, betches!

Contemporary Art Is Stupid

2 Mar

Contemporary art is not my cup of tea. Today at Boston’s Institute of Contemporary Art, I sat through a five-minute film of tar being poured over a pile of sugar cubes. That’s five minutes of my life that I’ve lost forever. I walked through a room that showcased a large plywood table with a bunch of crap on it. That’s half a room of heat wasted on an inanimate object. I even spent thirty seconds reading a caption next to a giant photograph of a pigeon, when my sister Jess gushed “That’s so cool, they took a picture of a pigeon in a studio – it symbolizes freedom in captivity” and I responded “Which is essentially the same thing as taking a picture of a goldfish in a bowl.” (And she laughed. I love that my sister can be deep but can laugh at herself.)

The Pigeon:

Two exhibits that were worth my time were Rania Matar’s black and white photography and a gigantic collection of Shepard Fairey’s street art, which has become a media/people -magnet.

But what I enjoyed most about visiting the Institute of Contemporary Art was not the art at all – it was the ocean.


The ICA building juts out over the Atlantic Ocean. Walking through or sitting in the above space is trippy. It was especially trippy today, in this foggy, snowy weather.



Here in New England, we have no choice but to find beauty in the bleak. For example, I’ve found the beauty in tonight’s Nor’easter: No Sunday night homework since there’s no class tomorrow. [crosses fingers]… And I suppose I find beauty in the bleakness of contemporary art when I laugh at the stupidness of it.

Do you need a laugh?

The Crap-On-A-Plywood-Table exhibit won a $25,000 award. FUCKING RIDICULOUS.

All photos are my own except #s 1 and 2. And yes, I’m back from my sabbatical. I guess I just can’t resist the instant gratification of having others read my words.

Cheap-Ass Travel

8 Feb

If you have no money (like me), the best way to travel is to do resort work. Tons of resorts across the US and abroad need seasonal workers, and to attract us they offer sick benefits. At this job, we got to use powerboats for free and for as long as we wanted, we used wakeboards/waterskis/tubes/kayaks for free, we got a discount on the gas (which, split between 4 people ends up being $16 for an entire day of wakeboarding – basically free), and we got to go on tons of free employee trips to tourist spots. Oh, and housing was $50 a month, meals were Welfare-cheap, and they even gave us a free week on a houseboat if we finished out our contract. (I didn’t get to use mine because I live on the other side of the country.) This is the website that I and alot of other people have used to score jobs.

On that note, I’d like to begin showing off my next summer-job destination. Hopefully. They better love my application..



Washington state, you’re SO HOT right now. If I was a gentle but slow giant named Lennie and you were a mouse, I’d keep you in my pocket and stroke you. Don’t get the literary joke?:

I haven’t even BEEN to Washington, but the Internet is making it look so damn sexy. Lock the door, unzip your jeans, and check out this national park porn, sponsored by 1-800-RED-HOTT:


Her name is Olympic National Park. She loves stretching out naked on an empty beach.. with or without you. Dial 9 now to talk to her.


When Olympic National Park goes out with the girls, she’s fantasizing about you with your pants off. That’s her secret. Dial 9 now to talk to her.


She’s living three separate lives. No one knows. Hear her secrets when you Dial 9 now to talk to Olympic National Park.


Have you been a bad boy? Olympic National Park wants to teach you a lesson. A lesson you won’t forget. Dial 9 now to talk to her.


“Where local girls go wild”

Now that I’ve gotten you all hot and bothered, let’s talk about Presidents.

It only makes sense that my boy Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the mastermind behind National Olympic Park. FACT: He was my favorite US President ever since I did a paper on him in the eleventh grade. You tha man, FDR. (IMO, Obama should ditch the $900 billion-dollar tax rebate crap and do what FDR did after the Depression – create a bunch of jobs with conservation projects.) <– That wasn’t very Escapist of me and I do apologize. Ish.

Lake Quinault Lodge is the place I hope to get a job at. They offer hiking, kayaking, fishing, and apparently the rest comes easy. Kind of like your mom.


I’ve also applied at Stehekin Landing Resort in Washington (equally sexy), Sequoia/Kings Canyon in Fresno, California, and I did a general application for all Aramark resorts including the one pictured above. Lake Tahoe would be my second choice. A couple friends of mine worked there and loved it.

To be blunt, remaining in Massachusetts over the summer pretty much guarantees unemployment. So I’m escaping. :) <–shameless plug

The Southwest: So west..

3 Feb

I am suddenly shit-faced from a cocktail made of sunny winter days, a travel blog called Camels and Chocolate, and last week’s Times article on kayaking in the Florida Keys. Shit-faced such that I have decided to interrupt my spring break broadcast for some TRAVEL WRITING.

Jenn and Me.

Jenn and Me, pre- "Money Shot"

Prior to May 18th, 2008, I was feeling quite locked down to my little hometown by the $5.72 balance in my checking account. (I now have $8.72 in my checking account, but I’ll save that one for another day.) My cousin Jenn Berry and I wanted to get the FUCK out of Massachusetts for the summer, so we minimized Facebook for a few hours and applied to a bunch of postings on

We ended up at Lake Powell Resort & Marina in Arizona right near the Utah border, where we “worked” 40 hours a week for 4 months as Watersports Instructors, at $8.50 an hour. Lake Powell is basically a Motel 6 with the sickest view ever, popular with Speedo-clad Euros and West Coasters.

..Just another day at the office..

..Just another day at the office..

Above was our “office.” We “worked” on that docked houseboat with one other person all summer, a wakeboarding Mormon named Jeremy. (If you’ve read my “About. .ish” page, you know that Mormons are one of three things I like, and Jeremy is why.) I won’t go into detail about what “work” was like as long as I have this place on my resume – but let’s just say we had the easiest jobs at the resort. We got paid to learn to drive really expensive, really fast boats, we got paid to learn how to wakeboard, waterski, tube, and wakeskate, and we got paid to take families out and teach them how to do it.

Jenn at work

Jenn at work

Putting on my "uniform"

Putting on my "uniform"

SOMEbody's got a case of the Mondays..

SOMEbody's got a case of the Mondays..

Other than working, we did other stuff too. Write that one down. But nay, I bank all my incriminating photos on Facebook, and I still have 4 undeveloped instant cameras from roadtrips to Vegas, Flagstaff, Phoenix, and the “Grand” Canyon. Here’s a rundown of each:

If you ever go to Vegas, DO visit the little beer pong bar/mini casino on the Strip. DO walk through the Bellagio, and DO walk through its Atrium. It’s like walking through the set of Ocean’s 11, and even if you despise flowers, I promise you the Atrium will bring drunken tears to your eyes. DO NOT pre-game in your hotel room then walk the length of the Strip. It is a waste of drunkenness. DO collect all the stripper cards littering the sidewalks, then trade them like Pokemon cards with your friends. Most importantly, DO NOT DRIVE TO VEGAS IN THE MIDDLE OF AUGUST WITH NO AIR CONDITIONING. We made that mistake.

If you ever go to Flagstaff, Arizona DO bring lots of discretionary income – the shopping is amazing. DO visit the thrift/costume store and pick up sick sunglasses (see below) for $10 a pop. DO get fucked by the Virgin River at Zion National Park – tubing in 2 inches of water is painful but fun.

Please disregard my ridiculous face.

Please disregard my ridiculous face.

DO NOT go to Phoenix. East Coast Interneters, it is the equivalent of Newark, New Jersey. Yea. Ew.

DO NOT GO TO THE GRAND CANYON. Though it may be a canyon, it is not grand. I told my economics professor that it was “Just a bunch of rocks.” With a rim made of 10,000 gift shops selling the exact same coffee mug. The only cool thing we got out of going to the “Grand” Canyon were these pictures:

Pff. I could make that canyon in my sleep.

Pff. I could make that canyon in my sleep.

(Our favorite Aussie on the far left)

(Our favorite Aussie on the far left)

Please feel free to Photoshop yourself into the above pictures, instead of wasting time and money visiting the most glorified ditch of all time.

And now I shall conclude the summary of my summer in the Southwest. Over the course of writing this, I have persuaded myself to reapply to another summer job on Working at Lake Powell didn’t exactly make me rich (hence the $8.72 checking account balance), but my bursting iPhoto collection and wealth of tags on Facebook are proof that I am rich with experiences. Mmm, love that corn.

Get a job, ya bum!



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