True Story: A Turn on 12th
[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."