No bottle service can compare to those boxes shamelessly brought to Chicken Latino and shared amongst equally shameless friends.
No drag queen can compare to the drunk and hairy bellied trannies with crooked wigs at the Blue Moon who are always trying to get you to buy them a drink
No night at Pacha will come close to the any night daggering next to half naked sweaty men on the slippery floors of “the tilden”
Crocodile Lounge is really great, but for their one pizza per drink deal you could feed an entire bar of angsty punks and burnouts at the Rock Room
No Michelin star restaurant can give you the feeling of a 3am breakfast sandwich at Ritter’s surrounded by all the other hungry drunk idiots of Pittsburgh
The Moma might have a van gogh or two, but it'll never have the glamour of the stuffed turtle-ducks and embalmed genitals at Trundle Manor
The subway is a magical place but no comparison to the Pittsburgh buses that are habitually late and where you’re bound to sit next to an obese man with a strange twitch and stranger funk (but you best believe he’ll say thank you to that bus driver before he exits)
I miss Pittsburgh.
New York is no Pittsburgh.
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