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Inside The Mind Of A Guy Who Just Got Done With His First New Orleans Weekend

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*Shoots up in bed, awaking from a nightmare*


Where am I? Is this my room? Do I have any shank wounds? Is my wallet still here? Oh God. I’m home. I thought I was still in New Orleans. The last thing I remember from my last night there was being chased by a gang of black hookers.

So. Many. Black. Hookers.

It’s like they outnumbered the actual Bourbon Street patrons. That can’t be a sustainable sex industry model. I was half expecting to wake up like Nicholas Cage in “Lord of War” with some prosto climbing off of me and having no recollection of how she got on me, and then being terrified that I got AIDS.

I think I remember one of them asking, “You tryna lay that good dick tonight?” and I was immediately less attracted to women afterwards.

Oh God! What… what was that weekend!?! All of it! I feel filthy. This is the dirtiest I’ve ever felt. It’s like guilt and shame and… *gags* fluids and death are all coating my skin.

Every step I took on Bourbon it felt like someone was trying to reach out and grope me. So many hands. Everybody wanted something. At one point I just wanted to start throwing five dollar bills at people and scream, “LEAVE ME ALONE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!” I think there was even some old Cajun ghost that grabbed my crotch at one point. Even the dead are pervs on Bourbon.

The food was incredible.

Why did I do all those drugs? The Adderall. The blow. They just kept me…going. That was a mistake. I should have gone back to my hotel at a decent hour and slept like a good, God fearing human being. But noooooooo. Not me. I had to rail lines and run around like a fucking psychopath, guzzling beers that were buy one get five fucking free because welcome to New Orleans LET US RUIN YOUR LIFE FOR YOU! My inhibitions were so low. So, so low. Oh God what did I do? Who did I do? A stripper? Maybe. Gotta check my bank statement.

A FIVE HUNDRED DOLLAR CHARGE AT THE HUSTLER CLUB!?! When was I even there? It must have been a private dance or something. Did she blow me? Did she fuck me? For five hundred she better have. But also, I kinda hope not. If my penis is red and itchy, or covered in glitter, I probably got my money’s worth. Let me check.

*Looks at penis. Sees it’s clean*



Oh, wait. Now I remember being there. Getting a nosebleed in the bathroom of a filthy New Orleans strip club might be a new personal low. I’m going to church.

Everything is blur. A terrifying blur. The worst part is not knowing exactly what I did. I’d rather know I cut off a prostitute’s head, threw her body in the Mississippi, and declared myself a Voodoo lord than deal with the anxiety of wondering whether or not I did. Good God that logic is horrifying. THIS IS WHAT NEW ORLEANS DOES TO YOU.

Pat O’Brien’s was pretty chill. Great bar. That hurricane was fantastic. A must have. Really.

I must have been at least five times drunker than I felt like I was this weekend, and NO ONE refused to serve me. If I had passed out in the gutter three things would have happened. 1) My body would have been stripped clean. 2) I would have been sodomized. 3) Someone would have kept pouring alcohol into my mouth.

I think everyone I met on Bourbon who wasn’t already my friend was a truly terrible person.

I was also, almost definitely, a terrible person.

At one point, I looked in a bathroom mirror, looked right into my eyes, and could have sworn my soul was gone.

God my chest hurts.

I should maybe be dead.

I should definitely have stitches. How I escaped the weekend without bodily harm (well, external bodily harm) is a fucking miracle.

That New Orleans airport looked like purgatory. Or the waiting room outside the court you testify before God in to be judged whether you’re going to heaven or hell. (In the case of everyone at that airport, hell.)

I’m never, ever going back to that filthy, drunken, booze and urine soaked hellscape nightmare.

I can’t wait to go back.

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