On Friday afternoon, happy hour was conveniently scheduled around my bedtime, and I found the best parking spot for seventy five cents, so I was already winning. As soon as I walked into Pub Fiction , I had the sales rep to the Metro Rail trying to sell me a lifetime of Metro Fare cards. So wait, you are telling me I just hop on and ride the rail to the bar? I’m sold. Go ahead and charge that bicycle too.
Talks about the rail were among the few, tempurpedic patio cushions, wrinkles, smiling less with my eyes, cinnamon sticks in my drink, water in red solo cups, I heard grilled cheese sandwich at some point, pizza/bread with sauce, and the hope for some mcdonald’s mcgriddles at 2 am. Some dreams do come true.
Cheers to my friends for understanding the meaning of being brown; we talk with our hands, sometimes clap, and laugh distinctively loud.



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