The Swahili New Year conveniently coincides with First Friday in the Crossroads district. But most people in Kansas City don’t celebrate Swahili New Year mainly because it’s something that my friend Shannon made up just last week. However, the sanctioned activities for Swahili New Year and First Fridays are pretty much the same: 1) drink box wine/whiskey/both 2) sit in The Living Room on 18th and Grand, and 3) play games at Shannon’s house.
Hey, by the way, did you know that certain prescription drugs meant to help you “focus” also help you to make trip after trip to the counter to refill your mason jar of box wine without even knowing that you are piss drunk? Well, they do. They are infinitely helpful in that capacity.
After the “New Year’s” festivities concluded, I picked up my box of wine and bottle of whiskey and headed out the door. Luckily, I was completely focused and thus able to deduce what happened next. I stepped from the porch and immediately found myself sprawled on the ground, staring at the night sky.
Brennan found me clutching the box wine and whiskey to my chest, laughing hysterically.
“What happened?!” he managed to ask through stifled chuckles.
“I’m down,” I explained.
Brennan and I pondered the evidence: yes, I had a history of spectacular falls. Nobody saw me fall, and I don’t remember the process of falling, but, seeing as how I appeared to be “on the ground,” I could only deduce that I had, in fact, “fallen.”
“At least you protected the whiskey,” Brennan complimented.
“Yes. Yes I did.”
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