you go to krash. you wake up the next day with a hangover and a new phone number programmed into your phone (writing them on scraps of paper is so 20th century). in between you drink long island iced teas (which your friend rona used to call "crack juice" and once made you yak all over 39th street, right in front of escuelita), get contact highs from all the pot smoke, and forget all about manhattan attitude as you dance your ass off in queens.