why is it so cold in here?

Ok, so a few days ago I described how I had written a drunken version of the pool-playing story, but I was unable to view the draft at an internet café because it was too obscene, so I had to rewrite the whole thing the next day. I finally managed to find a café that lets me view my own damn blog, and I just read, for the first time, the draft that I saved that night. I hope we agree that this version is much better:

When you´re in a foreign country and you´re me, the appeal of returning before closing time to your dingy, waterless hostel and paying $1.50 for a liter-sized nightcap is far more powerful than that of sticking around an actual bar and trying to interact with actual Argentinians. Fuck if you know why this is the case.

Anyway at least your hostel has cheap beer and free pool. But then when you suggest a game of pool with your buddy before casually slipping into the bathroom in hopes that he´ll break the goddamn game before you return, not only has he not broken the goddamn game but he says, as you return, that it´s your turn to break the goddamn game.

So, fuck it all, the only three people watching are the bartender and some eastern european couple who strike you as far too old to be patronizing a youth hostel, so you go ahead and break, even though you´re famously unable to move more than 4 of the fucking balls when you break. But so this time, I guess there was too much Malbec at dinner because you actually whiff the goddamned rack entirely, and then when your opponent charitably tells you to have another go at it, you only manage to hit the fucking cue ball hard enough to manipulate the usual 4 god damned shit fucking fucking fucking fucking balls and nothing else. Then, as your partner chalks his cue and you look at the ground in quiet shame, only then do you notice that your fly has been undone the whole time.

Buenos Aires, it strikes you, is only as sexy as you make it.