Don Julio should change names to mindfuckery and memory erasing.
I partied with two South Africans that showed me that I have no limits when it comes to enjoying Tijuana debauchery.
The plan was to go get a Montecristo sandwich at Azarosa, drink a beer, and pass out again. Azarosa was closed. So I had to settle for La Carmelita (which is amazing).
I texted the South Africans to make sure they were okay. They met me at Teléfonica for hungover brunch.
It was… more than just brunch. They decided to stay another night in Tijuana. And holy fuck. Can they party. They out party me by a lot.
I woke up again to no memory of how I got home. But memory is way better than previous night.
We did too much.
In Teléfonica alone we had over 7 caguamas and 10 mezcal shots. Largest bill that bar has ever had. We drank mezcal like champs. Not even 5 pm and I was already pretty fucked up.
It continued in this fashion until late at night.
Not even sure what happened.
I know we had Don Julio again. Right after the Don Julio my memory starts to fade. We went to that shitty strip club. That’s all there is to this story.
My mind is fried.
Somehow I just managed to bucket shower.
I feel fresher, but still drunk.
Not sure if hungover or still drunk. I feel super beat up.
For some reason my ankle hurts. Like it’s swollen. I don’t remember getting hit.
One of the South Africans gave me the nickname Mad Dog Mateo.
It’s similar to my previous nickname that Danger Dave gave me as Pachangas Matt.
This week has been fucking intense.
Here’s a picture of Bisho.
No reason for that picture. This post just needs a picture.
And I need to calm the fuck down.
I’m amazed I’m alive.
Back to the couch I go to keep watching NFL and try to be a normal human again.
Haven’t even edit the pictures I’m supposed to edit.
There are protests going on.
The weather is shit.
I am shit.
Tijuana Adventure is a dangerous life.