Montezuma's Revenge (Summer 2013)

Last summer after getting sick in Mexico City, I spent a few days in NYC ignoring how sick I was. I wrote this on the airplane ride from NYC to Boston, where I never really got any better. I didn't scribble as many notes then, but perhaps I'll make a part two to this. Since I have a cold today, this seems like the perfect time to post this.

Find three friends. Go to Mexico City. Eat street food. Ride bikes. Eat street food. Say goodbye to Craig. Be jealous of him three days later (later you find out his fate was the same). Go to the 17^th best restaurant in the world. Drink Mexican wine. Eat ants. Get drunk. 

Wake up the next morning. Urinate. Defecate. Get a cappuccino. Get a bagel. Yes, a bagel. Plan your day. Defecate. Defacate. 

“Shit.”

Enjoy room service for your last meal in Mexico City. Watch Argo. Watch Ted. Sleep on and off; never reach REM state. Read the Wikipedia page for “Montezuma’s Revenge”.

Go to the airport. Eat a banana. Relax. Feel better. Run through DFW. Sweat; but make the connecting flight. Land in LGA and patiently, but frustratedly wait for your luggage which is on the next flight. Arrive at friend’s place in Bushwick. Wait for him. Listen to Saves the Day. Andy comes home; trade stories. Pass out 

and sleep in. Feel better. Go out. Get coffee. Go to a beer garden. Play bocce. Drink a beer. Talk with friends. Talk about music and writing and music writing. Drink more beer. Eat a slice. Smile, laugh. Go to the park. Meet more friends, drink more beer. Eat tacos. 

Regret those tacos.

Go to a bar. Be thankful the music is loud enough in the bar that no one outside the bathroom can hear you. Triple flush. A guy makes out with you. Push him away. Feel conflicted. It is the only tongue that isn’t yours that’s been in your mouth in over eight months. Feel flattered. Feel annoyed when he tries it again. Don’t go to the rooftop DJ party. Sneak into your friend’s bed without waking him. Worry you’ll shit yourself in your sleep. Worry his cute roommate will smell the death that is escaping you. Wake up hot. Wake up cold. Drink more water. Eat more bananas. 

Have fun. Feel hot. Wear sunglasses. Take off your shoes and walk in the sand. Hold it. Hide your discomfort. Meet James in Williamsburg. Don’t get a cemitas. Go to a bar. 

It begins again. 

Drink Allagash on the patio. Pet the dogs. Go to your former band’s concert. Hope no one hears you. Quadruple flush. Stay for the headliner. Drink the free beer your friend gives you even though PBR is really the last fucking thing your system needs right now. Walk quickly to a different friend’s apartment conveniently nearby. Get ramen. See the members of Chairlift at the ramen joint; you are in Brooklyn. Take a cab home.

Try it again the next day. Regret trying it again. Watch 30 Rock. Eat saltines. Drink Gatorade. Go to a movie. Eat popcorn and drink soda. Have the worst shit of your life after in the theater bathroom. Your best friend is in the stall next to you laughing, making it worse, but making it better. Afterwards, conclude that poops and farts are universally and eternally hilarious and you are now better friends for experiencing such unprofound and ineloquent intimacy. 

Go to a Danish electronic show. Drift during the opener. Think of your old roommate with IBS. Think of people with cancer. Think of your mom. Think of other family members who’ve had cancer. Think how one day you’ll probably have cancer. Think about how tomorrow is the day you finally start eating better and take better care of yourself until this feeling of lethargy, malaise, and discomfort goes away. 

Go to Boston…