I'm going to get all ramble-y for a few. There are things here, home that are not like from anywhere else. When the guy that's putting ink to your arms says, "How's ya mama and dem?" and he's smirking so that you laugh because it's just so fucking cliche of the whole situation.... you know your home things. Because everyone knows what a PJ's and a CC's is, but we're more familiar with a Rue de la Course and the corner places that serve only a few pastries but exotic coffee. There's a bar across the street called Le Bon Temps and they serve Abita beer for $3.75, and that's cheap. Oh, and you know how to say Le Bon Temps without fucking it up like some tourist. You know where Calliope is, how to say it, and what parts of town it separates and why that's important.
People here get mad when a bar closes because they never close. And phone calls are acceptable at four in the morning. Lunch takes place at two or three. We begin our Saturdays or Sundays with a bloody mary, and it's spicy.
I know more people in their early twenties that are recovering alcoholics than people in their forties and above. By the time they reach that age they're a lost cause.
At my job there are only three of us there are drug free; me, Carl, and Rodney. Rodney drinks so much he really doesn't count.
No one pays attention to the One Ways or the Stop Signs. We're horrible drivers.
There's a slur to our speech. It's pronounced, enunciated, and soft. We eat our food slowly, sip our coffee, and sleep in even if we can't.