Tijuana Nights: Crossing the Border to Porky’s
I forget whose house I told my mom I was spending the night at the first time I went to Porky’s. Someone whose family my mom trusted, I’m sure. I’m also sure that I did not sleep at said friend’s house. We all met and slept at Gabe’s house. Gabe, my friend who always smelled like patchouli and had better hair than any girl I knew. He had a nice home and a loving family who did not mind if loud and obnoxious teenagers came over to throw up in their backyard and pass out on their couch. Or so I think they didn’t mind. Then again, I never asked them.
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