Fresh To Death

The Jersey Shore is an entirely unique place. I don't care how often you watch Sammi and Ronnie fight or how hardcore you are about GTL - if you haven't been to the Shore, you just don't get it. Adults drink with a veracity that I haven't seen since college and everyone around you is so stereotypically...Jersey. Sit down, relax, and let me tell you a story.

Jax and I needed to get out of the city. We needed a tan, we needed a beach, and we had annoying boy troubles that we wanted to escape. Belmar was the only option. By the time we got off of NJ Transit we had consumed two bottles of Veuve Clicquot and we. were. READY.

After a day at the beach (and a shocking number of vodka/lemonades), we retreated back to our humble Jersey palace, the Belmar Motor Lodge. For those of you who haven't stayed at the lodge - do yourself a favor - book a room at this chicken shack. It's....amazing.

Before going out we stopped off at Angela's shore house and this is when things get a little crazy. First of all, the only comparison this house shares with MTV's infamous Seaside Heights abode is that they are both in New Jersey. A few benders ago, this house was probably a pretty rad beach shack. But Angela shares this three bedroom with 18 people. 18 drunk Italians from Staten Island. You do the math.

Casa d'Angela. 18 people call this place home.

Pottery Barn hasn't grasped Shore-chic yet.

This is real. This really happened. Someone spent American dollars on a product called Spiker.

So fast forward to 10pm, Jaclene is DRUNK, Danielle is quietly assessing the situation, and I am in that icky limbo where the old booze is wearing off and it's not really making friends with the new booze. We found out that the boy trouble Jax left in NYC followed her here and it's quickly spiraling out of control. So we move on. To greener pastures. To D'Jais.

The scene of the crime.

If Belmar was a big solar system, D'Jais would be the sun. This club is NOT amazing - it's a shitty old building with one bathroom - but this place was packed. And fun. They literally pour champagne down your throat and hand out blinking light-up rings. When I'm drunk and you give me an accessory that lights up, I'm yours forever.

Your little fist just starts to pump and you really can't stop.

Apparently the group of guys we were with are essentially the mayors of this bar. I'm not sure if that's something to be proud of or not. But after a day in the sun and a day of drinking - all that was left to do was dance. And fist pump. It sure as hell beats falling asleep at the train station wrapped in a frigging towel.