No dry toast: about a bar

Mel Forest

 It was five o’clock in the afternoon and Kelly’s was overly packed with the displaced students of NovaFest. At the door, the bouncers spent about five minutes trying to determine if my real ID was in fact legitimate. Granted, the 18-year-old picture of me looks like a lady of the night who had been hosed down in prison. Indeed, it might have been easier to use my old fake. Nonetheless, after being shoveled past a stampede of girls racing toward the bathroom, I eventually began to find amusement in the diverse array of personalities that are the product of being crunk.