I'm a bit drunk and jet-lagged, hence the perfect time to sum up the past couple of days since arriving in London. It has all been kind of overwhelming and busy, but in a great and surprisingly comfortable way. The plan was this: There is no plan, the Bum Life is for Classy American Ladies with Leather Jacket. Michelle and I are fortunate enough to have met people on our trip to London last January whom we've kept in good contact with - Five potential hospitable Londoners, to be exact. After funds were extremely depleted from crashing/buying cars, and the prospect of embarking on the great Mecca to Europe was essentially fucked and intangible, we resorted to pleading via facebook messages, hinting at possible crashable open beds or couches in London flats, and we were extremely lucky in our pleading. These past three or so months have been extremely difficult and perhaps fate based, who fucking knows? I am not God or god. After two speeding tickets in 72 hours, breaking my tibia, and inflicting my Ford Fiesta with the equivalent to a severed arm and internal bleeding, I was pretty convinced that this entire trip was going to be a disaster. I had multiple American Assholes, as per usual, say worrying things like, "Don't die!" or "Gosh, I'm glad I saw you, you know...in case something happens" or, "I just have a really bad feeling about this whole trip..." So by the time Michelle and I left, I was an anxiety ridden mess, bawling my eyes out and cursing myself for being so bold and cool and independent for thinking traveling was so fucking essential to the American Youth no matter all the signs that screamed, "DON'T FUCKING GO TO EUROPE, YOU DUMB BITCH." I had stewed in boldness and independence for so long that that my traveling soup had begun to soak in too many flavors and spices and it wasn't such a pleasurable thought or future prospect any more. It became like a meal your poor mother slaves at all day, stinking up the whole house with indistinguishable smells, and by the time the crock-pot feast is finished and dinner is ready, you've completely lost your appetite. "Fuck me", I thought as I popped a xanax and wiped mascara off of my forlorn face on the day of my flight, "This trip is going to be fucked." Fortunately, everything thus far in London has turned out very metaphorically delicious, much like a home cooked crock-pot meal, even as unappetizing as it seemed at first.
Meesh and I had an extremely comfortable flight, which was exceptionally reassuring. We were upgraded to wonderful seats with three feet of much needed leg room due to a dysfunctional television, which my swollen alien ankle fucking loved. The tube ride into central London was quite nice and without exhaustion and confusion, so the first day was completely magical and Rowling, J.K.
We had very vague plans with Brad and Morgan (who have been traveling for nearly six weeks throughout Europe) to meet in front of a bar called The Underworld in Camden that I remembered very clearly from the last trip, but with no affirmation that they would actually show up at the scheduled time. After ten minutes of sitting on a massive suitcase in front of the bar in the middle of the day with no hope, they finally came around the corner and it was fucking magical. I can't properly convey how awesome it is to see someone you know from the 'burbs of Irvine in the middle of London. If you understand the strange dynamics of Irvine, you can perhaps understand what its like to see someone in a completely different atmosphere, thousands of miles away from stucco, New Mexico inspired adobe apartment complexes, or termite invested blue and brown wooden town-houses that infest the man-made North and South Lakes of Errvine. It is, for lack of better vocabulary, A FUCKING TRIP. The greatest place to see Brad or Morgan is nowhere. I would prefer to not see them anywhere. Not even on green eggs and ham. Not here, there or anywhere. Scar-casm, catch it? Stop being so dense. What is this, Nancy?
We had a pleasant day catching up with the two adventurers', Brad and Morgan, and our hostess, Rosie, the greatest Londonness one could possibly ask for. She offers her dairy products to us without spite, and shoves massive amounts of bacon in our faces and we respond in a ravenously joyous manner, grateful to eat breakfast with a view of an English herb garden and the Beatles blasting in the background. Blah blah blah this and that and all four of us sat in her wonderful four-story apartment with original 1870s crown molding and turquoise carpeting, all equally enamored and smitten with our surroundings, and it was perfect. And it is perfect, still. We cooked steaks and mashed yams and potatoes and had hilarious conversations and reminisced and it was all wonderful.
I'm tired and covered in a blanket of gin and black coffee so I will give you two hilarious incidents which have occurred in the past 24 hours:
1.) Rosie's delightful British father is a Respiration doctor, so Rosie requested that I be quite stealth in hiding the fact that I enjoy smoking cigarettes and blacking out my once pink and virginal lungs. I've been hiding this habit for a while from most adults, so I decided to tap into my stealth-ness by walking a half mile down the street from her flat to indulge in my unhealthy addiction. I also popped a piece of spearmint gum and sprayed my wrist and neck with a small sample vile of perfume. I smelt my wrist, expecting to inhale a pungent fume of bluebells and citrus. Instead, I felt something sticky and scentless brush against my cheek. I whipped out the perfume bottle, quite confused at the strange texture I had just drenched my torso in. 'Clitoral Arousal Gel', said the bottle. Aubrey, at the peek of my intoxicated ride to LAX, had given me a sample of Klit Kream or some shit, as a slight joke, which I happily accepted in all of my xanax induced haze. I ran into Rosie's house screaming that my neck was all tingly and red and aroused and cursed female orgasm products a bit and then laughed chaotically. It was really, really fucking funny.
2.) Tonight we went to a really bad club in Camden and spent way too much money on alcohol to tolerate the intolerable dubstep-ed Snoop Dog mixes - and Brad fucking blew it, but in a good way that made the night very tolerable, and completely worthwhile. Two normal-looking, presumably British-boy club goers, took three massive bags of baking flour out of their jackets and shook them onto the floor while on-lookers danced. Brad took the third pack of flour and utilized it's potential chaos by shaking it violently all over the club, turning each dancer into whitened ghostly disco horrors. Brad was politely escorted out, arms twisted behind his neck, by a bouncer nearly one foot shorter than he. We followed his delinquent ass out of the club and left without protest, laughing belligerently at the scene we had just witnessed: English sluts dancing to Kanye West's 'Gold Digger', white as Christmas angels and screaming in a cloud of white confusion. Brad can successfully say that he was once kicked out of a popular London club for doing one of the most epic things of all times. No bitch emerged from that club without white flour all over her jumper - not even I.
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