I rose early and walked due west for the better part of the morning, where I explored two of the nine gaudy, golden wats along the river. They were, I daresay, very Thai. Sequined elephants and reclining Buddha and all. It was bearably hot, and I rather enjoy a good sweat and a hearty jaunt, so, following, I ambled along the riverside markets for a spell, examining an unwantable pastiche of ancient cassette tapes, brass, alligator clips, a toy rocket with a broken wing.
It was early evening when I, dusty and full of ideas, returned to the hostel to clean up and forage for fitting Porsche passenger attire (vainly, and in vain) before meeting Chuck.
We dined at a terribly hip spot in a hideously trendy plaza. We desserted at a patisserie resembling a Swedish dollhouse, run by one of Chuck’s flock of slim, expensive heiress friends. We were soon joined by two more heiresses; Jan, who emerged from behind the wheel of an ivory Lexus flipping hair and cigarettes, and Min, of the legendary coif and the very high heels. We clubbed, which Chuck later verified meant standing around, delicately depleting bottle service goods ordered by Other Heiresses. I had about fifteen cigarettes, and a grasshopper, which tasted of knees and seasoning. We moved clubs. More heiresses. It was after two, and I was exhausted. I managed to stay standing by adopting a miraculously potent regiment of tri-hourly swigs of Cuervo, followed by light molestation by a complete stranger. When I finally slipped out of Jan’s Lexus – like a puddle – and climbed noisily - like a pony - into the top bunk, it was nearly four. I imagined that I reeked of tequila, not unlike that time freshman year that I fell into a hanger of cold, flayed Wings and swore never again to touch the stuff.
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