To all my Palais Royale Family:

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?

This is what they did to our beloved hole in the wall. Where those two-tops are, that’s where we used to sit and sip on Elijah Craig or Bulleit or Woodford…and watch UFC…and laugh at “Cheaters”…and have a dick measuring contest…and pour Jack & Coke’s down some dude’s ass and catch it off his balls…and make gaudy jewelry out of tin foil…and have 6’4” dark brown strippers named “Lightning” blow on girls’ parts as she held us upside-down…and duck when the toilet spit from the duct tape…and turn huge styrofoam beer cups into works of art…and have red carpet film screenings on twin ninja accountants (I was the White One)…and laugh at shitfaced friends who wanted napkins to wipe the throw-up off their faces…and barely be able to walk or talk bc of the weed chocolates (Peppermint Patty was my fav. Thank you, Java)…and BYOP(izza) or BYOB(ahn-mi)…and admire my hunk door dudes who acted all hard but really had huge hearts (Dulio, Noel, Eugene, muah)…and shotgun ponies for Freestyle Friday Happy Hour with the crew…and watch silently with mouths agape as R.Kelly told us about his closet.

Obviously, it goes on. And it will never be replaced. And then this shit happens. Whatever. Everyone call or email Adrien and tell him he needs to find us a new spot. Ok, Ok, I’ll work there, I’ll work there.

Note: I miss you all.