F*ing Scottsdale

Spent the weekend in my own personal hell. Scottsdale, AZ.

Now, sorry, Scottsdale residents, I don’t hold it against you. In fact, your town was just fine until it decided to attack me unprovoked.

I’ve spent a good amount of time in F*ing Scottsdale, as I’ve so lovingly dubbed it. I made a good number of trips to visit friends until I decided to concede victory of this bad decision, hot has heck town last September, vowing to never, ever, ever come back. Yet, F*ing Scottsdale lured me back in July, and I’ve regretted it ever since.

All I know of this place is blacked out nights, bad decisions and random irritations. Every. Single. Visit.

For one, it has some sort of supernatural drama magnet. And something random always happens.

This visit, on the first night, I found myself without my rental car keys, having them disappear out of thin air somewhere within a half a mile radius of Oldtown Scottsdale. So, the rest of the weekend, I acquainted myself with every bar in Old Town –not the fun way –asking for my keys and I figured out how use public transportation in the form of a trolley and I did a lot of walking. And calling my car rental company. And calling locksmiths. And getting told that they couldn’t help me. I’m surprised I made it home.

All this trauma has caused me to eat anything and everything in sight. I’m shoveling food down my mouth like a prepubescent teenage boy during a growth spurt. And let’s not mention the $325 bill for a locksmith to reprogram a new key.

To top things off, USC lost to ASU, and one of our star players got injured.

F*ing Scottsdale.

These are the billboards you see in F*ing Scottsdale. Along with the ultra classy graffiti.

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