Ahhhh Gallettes, the armpit of the strip. I don't know how you do it, you bastard, but you've found a way to become the guilty pleasure of a campus. Seven times out of ten going to the bathroom you will either a) witness someone throwing up, or b) walk into a stall with throw up staring you in the face from the bowl. But you know what? It works. Gimme it all. Give me a five dollar bottle of wine even if you ran out of the best flavor in the first forty minutes. Give me the puke bathrooms, the clouds of cigarette smoke, and the sticky floor. Cause you know what? The second those floodgates open, and the drunken mass of people rush to that back room, Gallettes has already won. At that point I've already gone back on my promise to go to class in the morning and shut my first alarm off. The girl from my lab has been rubbing up on me and I'm in the middle of the dance floor swigging out of a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Gallettes: Undisputed Champion of Wednesday.
