Last Saturday, I met a few friends a neighborhood bar. I’d been drinking whiskey cocktails for a couple hours at my nearby apartment, while barreling through episodes ofGame of Thrones, courtesy of my parents’ HBOGo password, and had a little bit of a glow by the time I met up a group of about a half dozen people. It was a pleasant enough evening of late-twenties-style drinking. Acquaintances were bumped into. Promises of future hang-outs made and forgotten. And then, around 11 pm or so, two or three drinks in, the crowd began to disperse, due to fatigue, plans the following day, and general lameness.
Me and three others, however, all who hadn’t really had dinner at any point that day, were in the mood for a little more hang out time and some kind of greasy snack. What one might call “drunk food.” So, when we left the bar, we decided to head down the block to a burger joint that stays open late. However, that night, the line was 15 people deep, and every table in the place was in use. Within thirty seconds of looking around, there was a collective sigh of “fuck it,” and we all decided to call it a night. However, the disappointing crowd wasn’t enough to extinguish the siren call of drunk food, so I wound up back at home, eating a giant bowl of instant noodles I’d purchased at nearby gas station, watching another episode of Game of Thrones. It was SUPER sad.