There’s nothing wrong with a Chili’s in the suburbs. Objectively, I mean. It’s fine.
On a shelf of my bedroom in West Los Angeles sits a Manny Ramirez World Series MVP bobblehead. Somewhere buried in my closet are a Boston Red Sox championship hat and marginally hideous T-shirt featuring the Boston Globe’s post-victory newspaper front page.
I was born and raised in Brooklyn. Because of this (and apathy), I find myself lacking a driver’s license. Not having my own vehicle (or the ability to legally drive […]
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