Assholes

I need to talk about my new obsession: assholes. Recently a friend of my girlfriend realized that she had never seen her boyfriends asshole. Which got me thinking: who’s assholes had I seen?

The answer, it turns out, was no ones! Not even my own. I’ve had a glimpse here and there, but I had never really taken a good hard look at it. So the other day, I took a hand held mirror and I got an up close view of my asshole. And it was…sort of disgusting. Honestly, I kind of regret it. It was just this weird hole. And there was this little piece of skin hanging in front of it. When I saw it, I simultaneously wanted to throw up and scream at the same time.

Next I wanted to see my girlfriends asshole for comparison, but she wouldn’t let me. I’ve never really done ass stuff with her or anyone else, so I haven’t seen the asshole of any one I’ve slept with. One time I put a finger up my ex’s butt, but that’s the closest I’ve come, and that still didn’t require me to be like looking at her asshole.

As much as my own asshole apparently freaks me out, I now am low key obsessed with knowing everyone’s opinion on their own assholes. Do people like their assholes? Does everyones look different? I’m a millennial. Our generation is literally defined by eating ass. It’s our favorite past time. And here I was, not even knowing what a real asshole looked like.

What’s next on my journey of asshole self discovery? Will I get really into anal? (spoiler alert, I won’t). Start a photo exhibit all about my asshole? I don’t really know. Life’s a crazy ride and you never know where it will take you. But for now, I’m pretty content never taking an up close look at my asshole again.

 

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A Reflection On How I Used To Eat In High School

OK, do any of you guys read New York Magazine? It’s my absolute favorite website, and they have a section called Grub Street that’s entirely devoted to food. One of the ongoing columns they have is called “Grub Street Diet”. Each week, a random C-list celebrity tracks everything they eat and reports back to Grub Street on it. It’s always an interesting read, but last week’s column really stood out to me because of how honest and disgusting it was. I mean, the author said she gets about 92% of her meals from vending machines. That really spoke to me.

I don’t eat like complete shit anymore, mostly because I finally learned how to turn on my stove. Knowing how to work a stove makes it easier to avoid eating Lean Cuisine and Hot Pockets for every meal. If you’re reading this and don’t know how to turn on your stove, I highly recommend learning. It’s not as hard as you think, I promise.

So while my eating habits today aren’t exactly healthy, I’ve come a long way from how I used to be. The height of my “eat like shit” phase was in high school. I look back on how me and my friends used to eat, and I’m amazed that not a single one of us has diabetes (we’re also only 25, so maybe that will change).

Let’s start with the main component of my high school diet: fast food. Oh my God, I can not even begin to describe how much fast food I used to eat. I kept Wendy’s in business. Seriously, google the profit margin of Wendy’s, and I guarantee you it was at it’s peak from like 2007-2010. That’s how much Wendy’s I was buying. I went through the Wendy’s drive thru so much that I had an ongoing feud with one of the women who worked the window. Our big blowout came when she said something about me being a bitch for asking for honey mustard sauce. I yelled “cunt” out the window as I drove away. A few months ago I went into a Wendy’s and saw someone having their high school graduation party there. A full on party, they had balloons and a cake and everything. And my first thought was “Why didn’t I have MY graduation party at Wendy’s?” I was so jealous.

And it wasn’t just Wendy’s. It was all fast food. McDonalds. Burger King. KFC. Taco Bell. Sometimes I would go to Wendy’s, McDonalds, and Burger King all in the same day. This was known as hitting the trifecta. Wendy’s was my favorite (please see above) but every place had their specialty. Burger King had the best fries back then, they’ve since changed them. McDonalds had the best milkshakes, which I know to be still true because I literally drank one last night. KFC was good for sandwiches. They had 99 cents KFC snackers that were advertised as having pulled barbecue chicken, but in reality I don’t know what the fuck that meat was. Honestly, I didn’t even like Taco Bell that much, but if my friends wanted to go there, I would still get a quesadilla or something. Thankfully the Taco Bell in my town is conjoined with a KFC, so I was mostly able to avoid it.

I was in high school and working 15 hours a week doing slave labor in a bakery for minimum wage. That didn’t leave me a lot of extra cash. So I usually ended up ordering off the Value Menu. 6 piece chicken nuggets, value fries, value drinks, spicy chicken go wraps, chicken snack wraps, chicken snackers. These were my staples. Occasionally I would splurge and get one of the actual menu combos, like the Asiago Ranch Chicken Sandwich. And the quality of the sauce varied from place to place too. Wendy’s was good for barbecue and honey mustard. McDonalds had the best buffalo, but their honey mustard was complete shit. Burger King had the biggest variety of sauces (what the fuck even is Zesty Sauce?), but also had the worst quality.

When me and my friends would occasionally venture into a sit down restaurant, it was almost always Friendly’s. Friendly’s used to have this deal called The Happy Ending. Contrary to what the name implies, it did not involve the waiter giving you a hand job. You got a sandwich, fries, a drink, and an ice cream sundae all for $9.99. It was fucking sick. I would get the barbecue chicken super melt every time. It was delicious. I once made the mistake of googling how many calories are in that sandwich, and it is well over 1000. But every bite was worth it.

I should add that one top of eating all this shit after school, I would then go home to my parents and eat dinner with them. So there were nights where I would consume a 2000 calorie, three course meal at Friendly’s, and then an hour later go eat a second dinner with my family. I’m embarrassed to say the lengths I went to hide the amount of fast food I was eating from my family. I would throw my trash away in the barrels outside of our house, shoving it down the bottom, or hide it in my purse and burry it in the kitchen trash can late at night.

Age 16 was when I got a car and could hit the drive thru whenever I wanted. Not surprisingly, age 16 was also when I gained a bunch of weight! I have never in my life weighed as much as I did at 16. I also…didn’t really care? I feel like even back then, I knew I had a limited window for when it would be socially acceptable to eat this much shit. I soaked it all in while I could. There’s something freeing about being a teenager alone in the Wendy’s parking lot at 2 AM. That same situation at age 25 suddenly becomes sad. So I guess my advice to all the teenagers out there would be…eat more fast food! Live it up while you can. Supersize that drink. Order that extra side of fries. Hit the trifecta as many fucking times as you can.

I Shit My Pants On A Boat

A few summers a go, my dad decided to take me, my mom, and my younger sister Renee out on his boat. Like most things my dad owns, the boat was second hand and one bad day away from being rendered completely worthless. There was a 50% chance the engine would run when you started it, but my dad’s always been more of a “glass half full” kind of guy, so to him these were perfectly fine odds. That day, the boat did manage to start. We made it all the way out to the middle of the ocean…where it immediately broke down.

To make matters worse, it has started raining. In the distance, we could hear thunder. The boat was aluminum, making it the perfect death trap in a lightning storm. Suicide was not a part of the plan for today, so my dad grabbed the paddles and started to row us back in. A nice gesture, but a hopeless one. We were barely moving.

Soon after my dad had started rowing, a boat stopped beside us with two men on it. These two strangers had clearly seen that what we were doing was impossible and had taken pity on us.
“Do you guys need some help?” The taller one asked.
“Well, our boats broken down. I’m trying to row us to shore, but…” my dad replied.
Jesus dad, enough with the pride! We’re stranded in the middle of the Atlantic, take whatever they give us! Fuck it, I’ll murder them might now and steal their boat if I have to.
“We’re heading back towards Quincy. We can tow you to shore if you want” the man offered.
“That would be great!” my mother replied before my father had a chance to answer.

As the kind strangers began to pull us to shore, something started to feel not so right with me. By that, I mean I really needed to poop. Before we went on the boat, I made my parents stop at Dunkin Donuts, where I ordered a large caramel swirl Iced Coffee with extra cream and extra sugar that I completely downed in about 30 minutes. I also was extremely hungover from drinking beer the night before. I tried to focus on deep breathing exercises, anything to take my mind off the growing pain in my stomach. But nothing was working. I was going to have to shit, and it was going to have to be soon.

I turned to Renee for advice. “I need to shit”, I said.
“Well wait” she replied.
“I can’t. It’s, like, going to come out” I mumbled, trying to keep my voice low so as to not incite mass panic from my family.
“You’re going to have to hold it until we get back, there’s no where to go”, she said.
It should be noted that my sister is a much more rational person than me. To her, there was no bathroom in the area, so therefore going to the bathroom was not an option. I, on the other hand, like to get creative with my solutions. Where you see an ocean, I see a massive toilet.

But there was no way I could jump into the ocean without being left behind. So the ocean was out of the question. But I wasn’t out of ideas yet. My empty coffee cup was still rolling around the bottom of the boat. Maybe if I had my sister stand in front of me to block the strangers view, I could use the cup without them ever knowing. It was a bit of a risk, as I have never shit into a coffee cup before, so I didn’t know how good my aim would be. And my dad wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to have the remains of his daughters massive diarrhea attack splattered around his boat, especially this early into the boating season. But hey, my parents raised me to be a risk taker! Dunkin Donuts got me into this mess, maybe it could get me out.

“What if I used my coffee cup?”, I asked Renee.
“Absolutley not”, she said, not even giving it a second thought.
“I don’t have a choice!” I proclaimed.
At this point, my body was loosing the war. I needed to shit. My stomach was killing me and I was starting to get nervous.
“You can’t shit in a coffee cup!”, she said.
Desperate for someone’s approval, I turned to my mother.
“I really need to go to the bathroom. Do you think I can just go in this cup?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
“Sure”, my mother replied.
“She doesn’t mean pee!” Renee screamed.
My mother looked at me for a moment, first to see if I was serious, and upon realizing that I was, to question what kind of creature she had raised.
“Just hold it”, she said.
“I can’t!” I said.
I’m not sure why my family didn’t realize that if I could hold it, I would. It wasn’t like I wanted to be shitting in a plastic cup on a moving boat. This was not my idea of a fun filled Saturday either.
“Please,” Renee said, looking me in the eyes. “Don’t do this.”
There was horror in her eyes like I had only seen on such serious occasions such as death of a relative and my parents threatening divorce. Apparently watching her older sister shit his a cup was right up there on the list too.
“I’ll give you anything you want. I’ll give you $20. Just don’t make me see this”, she pleaded.
I tried to think if there was anyway out of the situation at hand. Time was running out. If it wasn’t in the cup, then it was going to be in my pants.

And then, I saw it. Land! I could see the shore from our boat. We were getting close. Knowing that it would only be few more minutes, I tried as hard as I could to control my bowels. The second the boat hit the dock, I bolted up and ran. I jumped out of the boat and onto the dock, running past the strangers without a single thank you. The sudden movement threw my body for a loop. I lost the ability to keep it all inside me while I was moving. And then it was happening. I was shitting. In my bathing suite. I panicked. Without a thought, I threw myself off the deck and into the ocean.

Once I was in the ocean, I couldn’t stop. I wasn’t even trying to stop it anymore. The nearest bathroom was a local pub that was a five minute walk from the dock. I knew I would never make it. So I treaded water there in the ocean, surrounded by my own liquid shit. I don’t know how human shit effects the eco system, but it can’t be good. I’m sure I sped up global warming by at least 10% that day.

Once I was done, I swam towards the shore. I slowly walked out of the water. I tried to empty my bathing suite bottoms as best I could in the ocean, but there was no way to get it all out unless I clawed at it with my hands, and even I wasn’t ready for those extreme measures yet. I hung my head in shame as I walked onto the shore. My sister looked at me from the dock, shaking her head with complete disgust. I got into my parents car, sitting on a towel of course, and went home.
A few days after the incident, me and my sister were swimming in my parents pool. As we were laying on floats, my sister looked at me.
“Are those the same bathing suite bottoms you wore on the boat?” she asked.
“Yea”, I said
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked.
“What?! I washed them!” I said.
Once again, she shook her head at me with disgust.

I Got Yelled At For Smiling In My Mug Shot

Way back when I was a little baby in high school, my best friend Mark went away to college. Thankfully he did not go that far. He attended college in downtown Boston, a quick 20 minute train ride from where I lived. Friday nights when I was 17, my schedule would look like this:

  • Work my shift at Stop and Shop from 4 to 9. This was the most repetitive job I have ever had.  The only excitement came from the occasional customer yelling at me because I put her produce in the same bag as her bleach or something. Also, you know when you buy fruit and it has that little sticker on it with the four digit number? That’s called a PLU code, and I still remember every fucking one. They are burned into my brain from typing them in nonstop five hours a day. Seriously, ask me the PLU code for bananas or asparagus, and to this day, I can tell you.
  • Leave Stop and Shop. Frantically change into a low cut shirt in the parking lot. I needed to look like I was in college, those polos from Hollister weren’t cutting it anymore.
  • Drive from the parking lot to the train. Take the train into Mark’s college.
  • Force Mark to use his meal plan to buy me french fries. Binge eat french fries.
  • Get explosive diarrhea from binge eating french fries because all dining hall food is filled with laxatives.
  • Not really care that I had diarrhea because now there was nothing in my stomach and it was easier to get drunk.
  • Drink Smirnoff watermelon vodka mixed with diet coke. I would carry around a Poland Springs water bottle filled with vodka and a 2 liter of diet coke in my purse. I looked like a fucking lunatic.

If you’ve ever been to a college in the city, you understand that there really isn’t much of a campus. Students live all over the place. In Boston, the neighborhood of choice for students is Allston. The pros of living in Allston are the rent is cheap and there’s lots of nightlife. The cons of living in Allston is that there are rats the size or my arm that roam the streets at night, and that every building is infested with cockroaches. Look, you can’t have it all.

So me and Mark, along with some of his new college friends, take the train to Allston and wind up at some random house party. I’m already drunk by the time we get there. The house is packed with people. I’m also hungry again now that the diarrhea has subsided, so I steal a box of instant mashed potatoes from their counter and throw it in my purse. There was no way for me to cook these potatoes, so I’m not really sure what my plan was. To heat them up when I eventually got back to Mark’s dorm? Who knows.

It’s hot inside the party, so eventually I go outside. I’m standing on the side walk with a red solo cup in my hand, when out of nowhere, a cop car pulls up and stops. Two cops get out. One goes over to me, and the other goes over to some random guy standing next to me. We’re both clearly underage (everyone in Allston is) and we’re both clearly drinking. It all happens very fast, but as they approach us, I’m thinking they’re going to confiscate our alcohol and proceed to break up the party. But that is not what happens. Instead, the cops pull out hand cuffs! They hand cuff us!

They tell us that we’re under arrest for being minors consuming alcohol. Which, yes, I understand that it is against the law. But we weren’t being loud or causing a scene, we were literally just standing there. Could they not have just been like “Hey, stop drinking”?

They put us in the back of the cop car. I’m trying to text my friend on my flip phone, but it’s very difficult to text in handcuffs, and also very difficult to text on flip phones. They bring us to the police station and I realize that we’re gonna be here a while.

First, they go through my bag. They take away my alcohol, obviously. They also ask me why I have instant mashed potatoes in my purse. A fair question, but one I don’t have the answer to. They then proceed to take my mug shot. You would think getting your mug shot taken would be a scary experience for a 17 year old, but I grew up obsessed with pop culture, and all my idols like Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie had mug shots. So ya, I felt a little cooler than I should have. I didn’t know to pose, so I smiled at the camera. I fucking smiled in my mug shot, like a weirdo. The police officer was like “You can’t smile for this”. So I took another one with my “serious” face on. I’m sure it looked very awkward. I don’t know because I’ve never seen it. I have spent hours googling how to find your own mug shot, but apparently it’s impossible unless you’re a celebrity, in which case someone will leak it to press for a few thousand dollars.

Then I was allowed to make my one phone call. It was just like in the movies, they actually do give you just one phone call! I thought about calling my mom, but my mom gets really annoyed when you wake her up, and at this point it was 2 AM. Instead I called one of my friends who I knew would be awake because she is basically nocturnal. She answered, thank god. How fucking shitty must people feel when they don’t answer a phone call because it’s from an unknown number and then the next day they find out it was actually their friend calling to get bailed out of jail? I didn’t specify what jail I was at because I was 17 and did not understand that Boston is fucking huge so of course there are multiple jails. So my friend had to drive to two other jails looking for me before she found the right one. Meanwhile, I sat in my cell and just waited. It was freezing in my cell and all I had on was a strapless top from Forever 21.

Finally my friend arrived and posted my bail. A week later, I had to go to court for the arrest. The judge was mean and made me cry in the middle of court. I think he was trying to do the whole “scared straight” routine, but it was just unnecessary. I was a teenager who got caught drinking at a party, I was not exactly on the verge of becoming a danger to society. In the end, I got sentenced to community service, with the promise that if I completed it, the arrest would be erased from my record. I wish I could say that this was the last time I ended up in court for alcohol related offenses, but it is not. I still had many years of destructive drinking ahead of me! This was, however, the only time I got my mug shot taken. And someday, when I’ve finally become famous, I hope someone makes a few bucks by leaking it to the press.

 

 

 

I Found A Severed Finger In A Field

The 4th of July is my favorite holiday. Growing up, my parents hosted giant cookouts in our back yard. My dad would drive across the border to New Hampshire and return with a shit load of fireworks (they’re illegal in Massachusetts). Everyone would stay really late, which is like the most exciting thing in the world when your 10. I loved it. Now my parents are old and just want to eat a hot dog and pass out at 9 PM while the Star Spangled Banner plays softly in the background. So it’s up to me and my sister to keep to annual cookout alive.

And alive it is! Look, it’s the 4th of July and everyone is drinking all day, so it’s usually at least marginally exiting every year. But this year was just one weird ass incident after another. Let’s start with the fight. My friend, who is gay, was with his boyfriend of the past 6 years, who is also gay. The boyfriend doesn’t really keep in touch with people from his hometown, so not many people from his past know he’s gay. In a shocking turn of events, the boyfriends ex girlfriend  from high school somehow ends up at my party. I don’t even know her, she’s there because she’s now dating my friend’s friend’s friend (ugh, family trees, man). The fight breaks out over a game of flip cup. Someone had decided it was a good idea to play “survivor” flip cup where you vote one person off your team each round, which, I feel like you’re just asking for a fight with a game that aggressive.

So the fight starts out over that. My friend and the ex girlfriend are screaming. And obviously, because of their relation to each other, it escalates quickly. The ex girlfriend ends up just leaving the party, along with her current boyfriend. No one at the party really knew them, so…no one really cared! Everyone’s reaction was basically “Well, that was weird…anyone need another beer?!”.

Shortly after this incident, my cousin shows up and starts chugging nips of vodka. It’s insane, I have never seem someone drink so many nips in such a short time. I am not exaggerating when I say he drank at least 20 in one hour. Cleaning up the next morning, I kept finding empty nip bottles everywhere. They were stuck in the fucking tree branches. I knew this wasn’t going to end well for him, but we’ll get to that later.

This is where it gets interesting. If you were only reading this story to get to the part with the finger, feel free to skip ahead to this section. Every year, the party heads out to watch fire works once it gets dark out. These are not professional fireworks by any means, it’s all people like my dad who have smuggled them across state lines under blankets in the trunk of their Subaru Forester. We always go to the beach down the street from my house, so I start to walk in that direction. On the way over I run into my sister’s friend. She tells me that there wasn’t much going on at the beach, so everyone went to the field instead. The field is only another 5 minutes past the beach, so I continue my walk there.

Let me try to best explain the layout of this field so you can understand it. On one side of the field there is a small hill that has a swings on it. That’s where my sister and everyone else from the party was sitting to watch. To the left of the hill are basketball courts. That’s the entrance I came in. In the middle of the field is where people were lighting fireworks. As I walk over to the hill, a lady runs by me, crying. She’s running, so there’s not time to stop her and be like “Umm, you good?”. I get to the hill, but everyone is focused on what just happened in the middle of the field. There’s some kind of commotion, and people are gathering around one man in particular. It’s dark out though, so it’s hard to see what’s really happening.

No one from my party is entirely sure what just happened. But 10 seconds after I get to the hill, a man from the middle of the field starts shouting at everyone “We need phones! Come here if you have a phone!”. Something is obviously up, so me and a few other people from my party head over, phones in hand. Once we get to the middle of the field, we realize what has happened. They need phones because they need to use them as flashlights. They need flashlights because they are looking for fingers.

Fingers. Fucking fingers. All five of them too! This poor man accidentally blew his hand off while lighting a firework. And now we need to find his fingers so they can be sewn back on.

I don’t look at the man or his hand because 1. it’s disrespectful and 2. it’s fucking gross. I am horrible around blood, I was that girl who needed to leave the room in science class whenever we learned about blood and veins. But I’m also good in a crisis. So I get to work and start looking for those fingers!

The man who shouted at everyone for phones has now become the unofficial organizer of this little scavenger hunt. I’m assuming he is the father of the man who lost his fingers, but who knows, maybe he’s just a stranger who always had dreams of working in emergency response and happened to get lucky. Anyways, this father/EMT wannabe gets everyone to stand in a line, shoulders touching. We’re instructed to make our way very slowly across the field and to keep our eyes to the ground at all time. There’s a $500 reward for anyone who finds a finger. No, I’m kidding about that last part.

We’re about half way through the field when the man next to me goes “I think I found one”. I shine my light over to where he’s looking, and sure enough, there it is. “Yup, that’s a finger” I say. My friends brother comes over and picks up the finger to hand it to an EMT. Honestly, the finger just kind of looked…like a finger.

The search continued, but no other fingers were found. The rest of them just disintegrated in the blast. Or something like that, I don’t know, I don’t understand science. The man was taken to a hospital. Newspaper reports I’ve read after the incident tell me that he was fine other than the missing fingers part. Someone also told me recently that this same man caught on fire at a bonfire on the 4th of July a few years ago. Damn! This poor man is probably never leaving his house of the 4th again.

You would think after an incident like this, we would all just go home and go to bed. But not this crew! It just kept going. My sister, who was very drunk, made a phone call to her boyfriend at the field because she was freaking out over the fingers. Someone overheard her on the phone and yelled at her to “have some fucking respect”. My sister, being drunk and emotional, started crying and cried the whole walk home. When she got home, she made mac and cheese. Mac and cheese portions are fucking huge for just one person, so half of it was still in the pot on the stove when I got home a few minutes after her.

I asked her if I could have the rest of the mac and cheese. To which she said “Nope!’ and started pouring the mac and cheese on the ground and in the trash can, like a fucking lunatic. To prove a point, I grabbed some out of the trash can and ate it. “You’re disgusting” she said. “No, this is disgusting” I said, as I rubbed the cheese residue from my hands onto her arm.

And that’s when she lost it. She could not handle having cheese on her arm, despite just eating an entire fucking bowl of cheese covered pasta. “FUCK YOU” she screamed. Then, she took the pot she was holding, and hit me in the face with it. She threw the pot on the ground. Mac and cheese was everywhere. My mouth was bleeding. “CLEAN IT UP!” she screamed. The she ran out of the room.

I walked onto the porch where my cousin, the one who drank 20 nips in an hour, was passed out half naked on my couch. There was a stain on the floor next to him. He threw up, but someone had tried to clean it and gave up half way through, so now it just smelt like a combination of vomit and Lysol.

I stayed up for a little longer to attend to my guests, but I just wanted to sleep. Also, I was still hungry cause I never got to eat that god damn mac and cheese. It was a very traumatizing day. Around midnight, I gave in and went to bed. I woke up the next morning and cleaned for 4 hours straight. It needed to look immaculate for my parents. I looked through our entire yard to make sure I snatched every empty nip bottle. Searching for all of them was hard. But not as hard as searching for a finger.

A Motel I Had Sex In Is Being Condemned By The Board Of Health

I found out today that a motel I once had sex in is being condemned by the Board of Health. While this is disgusting and concerning, I’d be lying if I said it was surprising. I guess that’s what happens when you hookup in dirty motels off the side of the highway in Braintree! But let me backtrack a little here, I’m starting to sound as if I was a prostitute or, like, having sex for drugs. These are the images that come to mind when you hear the word motel, at least for me. But no, I was in fact just young, broke, and in love. Oh, and absolutely shit faced. Can’t forget about that part.

Two summers ago, I was dating my ex, who at the time, had a severe drinking problem. I rotated between being like “Oh my God, you need to stop drinking!” and just giving in and getting equally as drunk as her. So as you can imagine, the summer of 2015 was a blacked out blur (I mean, ages 16 to 23 were more or less a blacked out blur, but summer 2015 was REALLY BAD). So it was my ex’s birthday, and being the wonderful girlfriend that I am, I tell her we can go anywhere she wants. She picks Southie. OK, fair enough. We go to Shenanigans in Southie. I’m pounding Bud Lights. She’s pounding Bud Lights with a shot of Fireball after each one, which was her signature drink order back then. We get pretty drunk and decide we need to go somewhere else. Except neither one of us can drive at that point, so we’re limited to the other bars on that street. And there are A LOT of bars of that street, so it shouldn’t be limiting! But somehow, we decide the one to go to is the tiny dive bar that doesn’t even have a fucking sign outside. It’s very seedy inside. I think there was a run down pool table? The bar tender is definitely a little drunk himself. We drink a lot more there. Eventually we end up making out in the bathroom, which I’m sure hasn’t been cleaned since 2008.

At which point, I’m like “Fuck it, it’s your birthday! Let’s go somewhere nice tonight!”. We were both living at home with our parents then. So sex at my house was out of the question pretty much all the time, and her house was only an option if her dad was working. We hooked up in her car a lot. But tonight was her birthday. Car sex wasn’t going to cut it. We needed to do something special. We needed a hotel.

So we’re wasted in this dirty bathroom, trying to google hotels on our cell phones. We quickly realize Boston hotels are way out of our price range. So we start looking at other places. And what is the cheapest option of them all? The mother fucking Motel 6 in Braintree, Massachusetts.

This Motel 6 is off the side of a highway. It shares a parking lot with a Denny’s. Someone has been murdered there before. It is sleazy and disgusting and exactly the kind of place you would book at 2 AM after a night of binge drinking. I would like to add that despite being the cheapest option, I still remember the room price being around $125. Which is a lot of money for how little you get! How did this place manage to stay in business for so long? Who else was willing to pay that much for a room there?

Anyways, we take a cab to this motel. We check in and get our keys. Our room is on the backside of the motel. Meaning that instead of seeing the parking lot, we have a lovely view of an overgrown hill with some sort of freaky power plant like structure behind it. Inside our room there is a sink on the ground. A sink. Not the bathroom sink either! I still don’t know where it came from or why it was just laying there, detached on the ground. Some questions are better left unanswered.

The rest of the night goes as you would expect. We have drunken sex in a bed where someone probably snorted heroin out of a strippers asshole the night before. We wake up the next morning and are like “Why the fuck did we think it was a good idea to come here?”. Then we lay on the ground of the balcony outside (There was a balcony, that was cool!) until our hangovers subside enough to move again. We then have to take a cab back into Southie to get the car. Honestly, between the two cab rides, it probably would have cost the same amount to just stay in Boston.

So that’s my memory of the Motel 6 in Braintree! I’m sure events much more horrible than this have taken place there. It’s probably in everyone’s best interest that the Board of Health shuts it down. We want a better future for our children, right? But Motel 6, you will be missed!