You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery Read Online Free PDF

dicks, it could’ve been a Motel 6. It made me wonder how many unassuming couples checked in to this hotel not knowing what they were getting themselves into. I could just picture it:
    Barbara, start the Volvo. This place is a sin inferno . . . a sinferno! Barb, did you hear that? I made a pun!
    (Cut to Barb with her jaw on the floor as a naked man walks by.)
    Despite its family-friendly facade, the real action happened at the infamous pool. Ah, the pool.
    The best part about staying at the Atlantic Shores, besides the lack of shame, was the pool—specifically, the pool bar. The angel on the snack bar microphone would call out people’s orders in his best Kathleen Turner impression. You’d hear, “Jeff? I have one big, juicy sausage ready for Jeff at the snack bar. Jeff, this wiener is getting cold. Get your ass down here, Jeff.”
    We ate the hell out of that snack bar. I distinctly remember dropping ketchup on my bare chest, using a fry to wipe it off, then eating that fry. And no one batted an eyelash. The only time our naked existence was even acknowledged was when one old bear came up to my friend Kirby and said, “Damn, girl, you are whiter than a refrigerator.” To be fair, Kirby makes
me
look tan, and I look like I was raised in a cave.
    The Shores was built on a rocky edge of the water, so there was no beach. The pool was actually built on a dock, with a fence to protect it from peepers. However, the fence wasn’t
that
tall. Occasionally, you’d stand up to stretch your back and hear cheering, only to see a wall of dude bros at the neighboring hotel. They literally would just be waiting, beers in hand, like they were tailgating at a NASCAR race. This doesn’t seem that weird until youremember that we were the only girls there. Surely they weren’t constantly hawking that fence on the chance of seeing, at most, eight pale boobs. These frat bros were peeping at a nudist gay resort. Fraternity homoeroticism at its finest.
    While the days were spent poolside, the nights were out on the town on the main drag of Duval Street. It’s what you would expect from the Florida Keys. Everything is low-key and people crack open their first beer way before noon. It’s basically the incarnation of a Jimmy Buffett song, which makes sense because he lived there for many years, and it’s where he opened his first Margaritaville restaurant. *
    Now, I can totally handle a place having a Jimmy Buffett vibe to it, but I can’t really handle the amount of
actual
Jimmy Buffett they play in the bars. I sincerely believe that is why everyone drinks so much there—to deal with the constant parrot-head soundtrack.
    Side note: I dated a baseball player for most of high school, and one year he had a superstition that before every game he had to eat grilled salmon and listen to Buffett’s entire
Son of a Son of a Sailor
album. This was a very difficult spring. Although, it could’ve been worse. He could’ve had one of those superstitions about wearing the same gross-ass pair of underwear all season. But, I’m not judging. I have my own superstition. It’s simple. In order to have a happy life, all I’ve got to do is
not date athletes
.
    The day came to finally put on my “Day Five” shirt. Here it is, the finale of spring break, and I haven’t so much as made out with anything. I know this is shocking considering the accommodations I chose, but still. I couldn’t go back to North Carolina with my only mistake being that knee-length jean skirt (again, 2005, people).
    We each shelled out twenty dollars to go to a foam party. How my friends dragged me into it, I’ll never know (but Jägermeister might). I don’t like being in things I can’t see the bottom of. I don’tswim in water that isn’t completely clear. This foam party was the adult version of those circumstances. And no amount of soap bubbles can clean what I imagine was on the bottom of that club floor. I lasted five minutes in that bubble bath of bodily