Hot air balloons are dangerous.*

*Actually written May 18th at 10:00 PM.


Last night was my last night in Boston for a couple months. I am ready for some time away. I'm ready for a couch and a TV bigger than my head and food that doesn't leave my body two minutes after I finish dinner and silence when I sleep instead of sirens and drunk Red Sox fans outside my window. Don't get me wrong. I'm going to miss Boston. Which is why, instead of packing and going to bed early last night like I should have, I spent my final night in Boston boogying at An Tua Nua with Drew.

That bar is infinitely less creepy when you go with a guy. Granted, there were still a lot of psychos. Nevertheless, Drew and I danced off the wave of depression that will (undoubtedly) follow my departure.

Guys at bars are so weird. I left the dance floor to get a beer and some guy who was at least a foot taller than me started a conversation. I noticed his accent, asked where he was from and he told me, Liverpool. He said he was here with his "mates" for a "match" because they were on the "football" team. Or were, he said, lifting his right hand and a cane (which I noticed earlier but was not drunk or rude enough to inquire on my own.) I asked what happened. He told me he fell out of a hot air balloon in Switzerland..... Yea. He proceeded to introduce me to his friends and brother. I asked him what really happened to his leg and he told me "a big girl, almost 300 pounds, flattened me in a club the other night!"

At least his imagination is still in tact.