It’s Not Even My Birthday
My friend Amanda celebrated her 20th Monday night by inviting me and her Monmouth friends to Dante’s. Twenty of us laughed over wine, pizza, and pasta in the restaurant’s basement. We became the American stereotype; loud, drunk, and confused over the bill. Getting restless, I walked upstairs to apologize to the staff. They assured me that we were seated in the basement to enjoy ourselves. Regardless, I thanked our beautiful waitress, Olga, with a tip.
We returned to Amanda’s apartment before heading to the Lion’s Fountain where I ran into Kaliegh and Bridget. We mingled until the lights turned on. Stalling bedtime and pained with hunger, we burned our mouths on a fresh Mr. Pizza pie. Still hungry, I followed the girls to experience the “secret bakery” for the first time. At this “secret bakery”, patrons stick their head into a back ally to order a pastry in Italian. Impressed with Kaliegh’s request, the man handed us a dozen croissants. Filled with jelly or Nutella, we indulged in our late night snack.
The next morning, we had several regrets.