[Editor's Note: Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. This column may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.]
Me: “We normally walk down Sixth, but today, we turned on 12th, and there she was, coming out of an apartment, looking haggard, carrying her shoes.”
Brook: “Ouch, walk of shame–wearing last night's clothes.”
Me: “Like you've never done it?”
Brook: “Of course I have; I still have a curb mark on my forehead from the last time I went out.”
Me: “Anyway, this chick sees me, and instantly, the expression on her face morphs into this 'Oh my God, I have the stench of booze seeping out of every pore, and there's that dude that doesn't drink.'”
]
Brook: “As if you'd care. You don't care, do you?”
Me: “No. I don't give a fuck what she does. It's her life, not mine. I'm just here if she wants help.”
The Girl: “I woke up in a strange bed with some Persian dude breathing all over me–stale kebab. I was still kinda drunk. I barely remember leaving Crabby's–let alone ending up at this dude's place. I have no idea who he was. I was hammered–naked and used. I didn't see any condoms either. I got dressed as quietly as I could–picked up a trail of my clothes to the front room, and then I split.”
,
The Girl's Boyfriend: “She went out with friends. She was supposed to come here after, but she never showed. I called–no answer. Fuck her. Why am I even talking to you? Is this for one of your stories?”
Me: “Yeah, but it's anonymous.”
The Boyfriend: “Fuck that. Write that Patrick said she's a drunken cunt.”
Me: “Okay.”
[
The Persian: “Persian? I'm not fucking Persian. My dad's white, and my mom is from Greece. Do you have her number?”
Me: “No.”
The Persian: “Okay, but tell her Farhad said, 'Hey.'”
The Girl: “It took me a second to get my head straight. I could see the ocean from the front porch, but I could've been anywhere. I was relieved to find myself on 12th–it was a short walk home. I wasn't feeling too great, and I was trying to pretend it didn't happen when I came face to face with Jack and that Brook chick. Fuck. He's one of those sober guys, and he's looking right at me. Seriously, it felt like being caught masturbating by my grandmother. I felt so fucking low. I know what he had to be thinking: 'This chick is a drunken slut.'”
Me: “To tell you the truth, I was happy to see her. I didn't care what she was doing or what she'd done. I like her. I hope she finds her way. I smiled and said hello.”
The Girl: “He smiled, said, 'Hello,' and kept walking. It was awful. I gotta call Patrick. And I need a 'morning-after pill.' I hope that dude was clean. I can't do this again.”
Brook: “What do you think: Will she?”
Me: “Will she what–do it again? Yeah, most definitely.”
See also
10 Punk Albums to Listen to Before You Die
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