A week ago, you discovered his sext to the tiresome blonde you never liked but whose presence you quietly tolerated because you wanted to appear supportive of his platonic relationships with other women. Stop stewing and bring him to the ultimate locale for the inevitable breakup conversation: Laclede's Landing. You have nine blocks of cobblestone-covered road on the Mississippi riverfront to divulge that, although trolling through his sent box was technically an invasion of privacy, the sin pales in comparison to the photo attachment you found on the note that read "U R makin me SOOO HRNY :>P!" with her phone number as the contact. Reassure yourself that the vital threshold of our city was once nothing more than a beaver fur-trading post, and just as the heart of St. Louis outlasted the fur-trade industry, so too will you endure your twenties. In the meantime, ditch Mr. Baloney Pony and seat your dignity at Tigín Irish Pub, billed as "a place for the traveler to find comfort," for some solo bangers and mash and a Smithwick's or four. The Metro station's handy if you're bleary — but only after you stumble over to the Gateway Arch grounds to contemplate the fine, silver line of our city's mighty monument to passage. You'll get through this.
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