By now, if you Facebook stalk me to the extent I expect, you know that something magical happened in Paris this past spring break. Something greater than Florida State’s Cinderella run to the Sweet Sixteen. Something even greater than Whoopi Goldberg telling Donald Trump to STFU. Something outside of my wildest dreams. I’m referring, of course, to the time I spent with Morty “The Fucking Legend” Schapiro in the City of Lights.
It seemed like a regular Parisian afternoon. I guess that’s how these things usually go. I was walking with my parents up to the Louvre after having lunch at a café in the Tuilleries. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of purple.
Sherman Ave 