Blackout Brunch.

New Orleans is a magical place. 

One can easily lose hours, or even days when visiting. 

On my most recent visit, I only lost hours, in what will forever be fondly referred to as "Blackout Brunch". I no longer trust bottomless mimosas, or gay men wielding drinks called "The Beyoncé".

You shouldn't either. (Ever)

(The drag queens, performing at brunch, hold no responsibility for my demise.)

I went to sleep (passed out) in a bathroom stall (fully clothed) of The Country Club, was later escorted out (by man in his underwear) and driven home by lovely strangers (that called me oppressive). 

I don't recall any names, or even the color of the car I went home in. But I do know the interior of the car was leather as that delicious smell never escapes me. I also recall that one of my rescuers held my hand the entire way from Bywater to Uptown. 

The remainder of the weekend was spent wandering with my Mix Tape, dining in truck beds, watching movies at 4am, and receiving hour long foot massages from a small Asian man. 

Every moment was precious. Even the fuzzy ones.