Un-Arranged Thought

I love those people who have only been to Ybor on a Friday or Saturday night, went out to the club with the intention of getting sloppy and sweaty, got into a fight because someone grabbed their boob that their shirt was struggling to keep under wraps in the first place, shoved 6,000 calories worth of pizza into their mouth, went home to sleep with the random and equally-sweaty person who grabbed their boob earlier, puked up Bacardi O and Sprite in the bushes next to their apartment on the way to the stairs, had sex with the sweaty person anyway — now with the added bonus of vomit-stench — possibly contracted some sort of communicable disease, woke up with the kind of headache that makes them promise themselves that they’ll never drink again, and then have the audacity to say, “Ugh. Ybor’s gross.”

News flash: You’re gross not the classiest.

Although Ybor may provide the type of weekend landscape that facilitates the urge to commit as many sins as humanly possible in one night, Ybor’s not the culprit here. If you wake up with the spins and the intention of purchasing Plan B at some point in the day, you’re only manifesting your own destiny, friend.