Fucking London, man. What else is there to say..... I'm delusional right now because Michelle and I haven't had much sleep this weekend, so I'm going to include a descriptive list of the nights we've been having. I can't focus on these stories as a whole with organized paragraphs, so the easiest thing, at least mentally, will be to split them up into fragments. Bear with me:
Friday
-On the night of the mugging, we slept at the Oxford scholar's house in little children beds.
-We did the walk of shame back to our hostel in the morning. By walk of shame, I mean we looked like deranged prostitutes with our smeared eyeliner and wind chapped faces. But really, what is new? Walk of shame not meaning, of course, that we had any sort of intercourse. Besides, I couldn't have performed sexually if I wanted because I was so pissed, which is British slang for being madly drunk. The only performance of that nature was the unwanted booty quaking that I so drunkenly displayed for our mates. Seismic waves of 6.2 were recorded. Bailey's will do this to you. So will beer, gin and tonic, and something called a glitterball, which I will not get into.
-We attempted to sleep at our hostel after our magical night with those blokes, but it never arrived, so we went out like zombies a few hours later and met the art director dudes from New Years in some neighborhood pub in Dartmouth Park, which is the kind of London neighborhood that I quite fancy. The buildings are easily 100 years old and crumbling. They look as if Charles Dickens with his powdered wig and trousers will come trotting down the lane on a fucking majestic white mare or some shit, at any given moment. I feel badly about alluding to Charles Dickens in such a sentence, so I'm sorry, but I couldn't help it.
-The bar was lovely, and we had a few beers and chatted up our Brits until it closed. I can honestly say that I've never met anyone like them. No one comparable at least. There is no way to describe their personalities in words. It's just shocking that they are so much older than us and can still find a way to converse with us intelligently. I would say I'm quite mature for my age, but I'm surprised at how eloquently I kept up with discussions on politics and foreign relations and what not. I doubt I made any sense at all or sounded even in the slightest bit like I knew what I was talking about, but this is beside the point.
-After the bar closed, it was still relatively early, so all seven of the dudes and us ladies, went across the street to one of their flats. Absinthe appeared, and shots were poured, and the hysteria began. I've never had absinthe before, but that shit really is lethal tasting, like if black licorice and rocket fuel had a baby. An alien baby at that.......with arms coming out of its head and four eyes and psychic powers. It was fucking shocking, and everyone screamed and then our heads began to buzz and then the dancing started.
-Try and imagine five British dudes, three Irish men, and two American girls, easily with a fifteen year age gap between us and them, dancing like maniacs in a compacted living room. Put on some Odd Future, The Cure, The Beatles, Dubstep, New Order, Neil Young, and some Aretha Franklin for good measure. Top it off with some Slayer, and throw some scotch, more beer, and some alcoholic cider on that, put it in a blender, shake it up, stir that, salt and pepper it, and toss in a drunk British man yelling, "MORRISSEY IS A FUCKING CUNT!", and what you've got is chaos. Pure, unearthed chaos. But really though, if you know me, you know that the greatest night for me always ends with a dance party. So a dance party with a bunch of strange men from the United Kingdom is really just a fantasy fulfilled.
- The most satisfying moment of the night was when an Irish man and I did a duet to 'Safety Dance' by Men at Work.
"You can dance if you want to/You can leave your friends behind/'Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance/Well, they're no friends of mine"
You know it, you love it. I have no clue where the Irish men came from, but they were a great addition.
-I spent half the night in the hallway of the flat fending off propositions to have sex with three different dudes. In their defense, they were really really wasted, but they had to be completely out of their fucking minds to want to sleep with someone who was doing the 'cleopatra' dance move for a half hour. Really really awful stuff. The amount of arguing that I did with them lasted longer than the sex would have. Their arguments were senseless and hilarious:
"We just might be soulmates. You subconsciously wore that Joy Division shirt for me."
"Let's just have a quick go upstairs. It's really nice up there, have you seen it?"
"You can't come to England and not sleep with anyone, that's completely mad! You're on holiday."
"I've been watching you all night, and you're so saucy on the dance floor. I'd really like to take you upstairs, but I've got a girlfriend, you see."
"I'd rather have you in my bed, than not have you in my bed......"
Unbelievable. Aside from really great logical arguments on my part, the best way to end my refusal to their polite invitation was to dance away really ridiculously. The next best thing was when 'Age of Consent' by New Order came on, and I screamed it in their fucking faces because I'm just a baby and much to fragile to be necking with thirty year-old British art directors with girlfriends. It's quite possible that I'm just a tease and my dance moves are quite alluring and provocative. No, who am I fucking kidding? Horrendous stuff, really. One of the dudes actually could have been my soulmate, but the age difference is too frightening for me. Maybe one day we'll meet again in some fated way and dance to Joy Division once more. He'll always remember me as the American girl who wouldn't put out, and I quite like that thought, actually.
-Meesh danced. Need I say more? Meesh and I screamed and danced and pushed away Irish men who came careening across the room in the mini-mosh pit.
-The room was disgusting at the end of the dance party. Beer was spilled all over the floor. The floor was black and sticky with god knows what. It was a complete mess.
Saturday
-Meesh and I woke up a bit past noon, which was kind of disappointing since we slept most of the day away. Can't speak for her, but my body was aching, my insides hurt, and I had all kinds of weird bruises all over my legs. Dance party wounds. The norm.
-We went to London Bridge and walked around the markets and imagined the 17th century English men who once walked the streets before us.
-We contacted our dance party mates and met one of them in a reggae bar, which I didn't like, at all. Can't stand reggae, oh well.
-Located to another little bar, met up with another mate, drank something called a Kentucky tea. Was well on my way to being really pissed drunk at this point.
-Left the bar. Ate a bit. Got a bottle of rum. Threes hours later. Half the bottle of rum. Exorcism of Emily Rose doesn't have shit on me.
-Put on a bathrobe. Threw my ruined silk shirt and wool coat in the wash. Crawled into a bed.
-Woke up. Everyone is hungover, sleep deprived, cold.
-Watched youtube videos till 3pm. Had a cup of tea.
-Relocated to one of the dude's flats. Made an English dinner of cod, potatoes, and brocolli.
-I'm going to miss those boys more than they know. Who knew that laughing at five dudes on the tube would result in the best trip to London anyone can ask for.
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