Laying in bed pondering the mysteries of life, I scrolled aimlessly through my phone. Chatted to the usual characters about the usual topics: boys, pooping and celebrity gossip. I stumbled upon an Instagram story clip of my friend at the pool in Ibiza. Summertime in Paris is second only to the seventh circle of hell. Hellfire heat with no central air conditioning, August is simply unbearable. As a collection of sweat beads formed on my forehead, I messaged him to ask how’s the weather in Spain. Casual conversation turned from ” Oh, it’s great!” to ” Why don’t you come tonight?” in a matter of seconds.  Tonight? To Spain? I mean… I couldn’t. It’s too sudden. It’s too crazy. Who was going to watch my dog? I haven’t shaved my legs. Dammit, I’m broke. Long story short. Within two hours I was boarding a plane to Ibiza. Ibiza, a village of sin. The same Ibiza I vowed never to visit again (following some incidents from my youth that I am not too proud of). Caution to the wind and paella to the face, I was back and feeling good! Overall, I had a fabulous time. Still dreaming of Club Pacha , David Guetta and a bucket of sangria by the pool. Oh to live again!

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