Brixton, Buses and the 8am Ordeal

This weekend was a boozefest.

Well, just Friday night as I spent all day Saturday & Sunday recovering/sleeping. Friday night my friend and I went to Brixton, which is in south London. We went there a couple weekends ago and it was fine, had fun, not too much to report. Well, actually there is stuff to report. We went to a pub where they played 70s British rock music and the people who were there were hilarious! Just having the time of their lives, dancing their hearts out to crazy-ass music I've never heard off. I was not judging because I know that pretty much every Friday night back in the States people were thinking the same about me...."what the fuck is that girl dancing to?! and it looks like she's about to break her back, someone might actually need to help her!" Besides the interesting (euphemism being used here) dancing, the night was uneventful a.k.a. no make out sessions in back alleys. It was a lame night, I know, that was until we had to get home. Brixton is pretty far south of where my friend and I live, so instead of taking a £80 cab ride home, we worked out our bus schedules home, so we would only have to pay around £6. Well, if you know anything about London bus schedules, you know they are a fucking mess. There's a joke about how the bus schedules are so random and strange just so that it can confuse tourists, and it sure as hell confuses me. I'm a tried-and-true "tube girl". I love the tube, I get it (now). It stops where it's supposed to stop. The different lines go where they are supposed to go, just like the map says. It just makes sense to someone as geographically and orientationally (not sure if that's a word) challenged as I am. The buses just fuck me up. Just to make sure I knew what I was doing that night, I wrote down the connecting buses, which, luckily my friend was taking the same bus at the start of our trip and then we switch buses at the same stop and each go on our way on different buses. Confused yet? So am I. But I wrote down the stops where I was supposed to get on my specific bus going the specific direction and which stop to exit at, etc., etc., etc. It hurts my brain just thinking about this.

Well, we got on the correct first bus, and this is only because I was not in charge, once we had to change buses, it all went to hell. My friend's bus showed up first and she had hit the booze wall where you just want to get home, you don't care what's going on or who you are leaving type of wall, and if ANYONE understands this wall, it is I. I've bailed from across town, just to walk across highways to get home at early morning hours. I've left without telling anyone to go home, send texts out to gentlemen lovers who I'd like to join me, now that I've made it home, etc., etc., etc. The problem now that my friend had left me, I couldn't find the stop where I'm supposed to pick up my next bus. Whatever, I was drunk and I was going to figure this shit out.

I walked a ways down to another bus stop, and it still wasn't my stop. Fuck. This was starting to look bad. I was really far from home, I barely knew where I was and I had no one to call to help me. FUUCKKKK. Luckily, since I'm a genius, I know the "area" in which I live. I know, I know, I'm a-fucking-mazing because I actually know which "area" of London I live in. I should win the Nobel Peace Prize or some shit. No, I really think they should just send me up to space, or better yet, I should be in control of all the nuclear arms in the possession of the US. Yes, I'm that bad with directions. I found a bus that goes in the general direction of where I live. Cool.

I'm on that bus for about 45 minutes. I was rocking out to my iPod, because I'm so cool and just watched the hundreds of other people taking the buses home at 3am. I had listened to almost a whole playlist on my iPod and I started to think, man, I should be getting close to my area now, but since the helpful fucking people at Transport for London don't think it's a good idea to put maps of where you're fucking going in the buses, I really have no fucking clue. I could have been close to Scotland by then! Luckily we drove by something that looked familiar. Sweet, things were looking up. Then my bus decided to terminate (stop, to those of you commoner people) early. It just stopped at the next stop. It didn't go to my area, like it said it would, it just stopped. Shit, balls, cock face, fuck off, wanker, living shit hell. I got out with the rest of the people and started stumbling in the direction which I thought was home. As I mentioned before, there's no one I can call to ask to help as to where I was going. I have no friends here, except the friend who left me, my parents were in America and besides, it was 4am and I'm sure as shit not calling them even if they were there. Oh and since it is 4am, there were no shops open for me to go in and ask for directions, there wasn't even anyone on the street, so quiet literally, I was fucked.

I stumbled and I stumbled some more in the direction of home. After another 30-40 minutes of stumbling, and this was after over an hour on the bus, I found a street that I definitely know! WOOHOO!!! I was home free. I got home well after 4am and slept until about 3pm the next day.

The lesson that has been learned from this trip: bring a God damn GPS with you when you plan on getting drunk and rowdy in London! Shit!

Alright, now on the the next trip to Brixton.

This Friday we headed down to Brixton and you can be sure as shit I had at least 6 alternate bus routes written down that could get me to the general area of my home. No, shit. I would not be stuck walking around London by myself at 4am. I was prepared! Alright, so we got to Brixton and man it was dodgy! I mean I felt like I walked into South Central or Compton. The South Central bit makes sense because Brixton is way far down south of the Thames, but dude it was sketchy. We called the people we were supposed to meet up with and let them know we were a bit lost. They told us to get back to the station, stay there and they would meet us there. Apparently, I wasn't the only person who thought this place was the ghetto. They did not want us walking around by ourselves, which made sense. Two white girls, with American accents, looking lost and slightly desperate for a drink.....that was just asking for all sorts of shit to happen!

They rescued, I mean found us, and we get to the party and it was in a really nice flat, far, far away from the ghettoness. Speaking of ghetto, while we were walking around getting lost I saw a venue with a billboard with the performers for that week. I don't know if any of you know Star Wars a little bit, or have even seen it, but one of the lesser characters is names Boba Fett. This character is a bounty hunter who actually turns Han Solo into Jabba the Hut in Episode V, The Empire Strikes Back, after he has been frozen in carbonite....ok whatever, I've already lost everyone. But instead of Boba Fett, the artist who was to play that night was Boba Fatt. I just thought that was hilarious and really showed what type of place we were in.

This party ended up being some sort of acoustic concert of sorts. Pretty much a God damn kumbaya sing-a-long. If any of you know me, you know this is not my sort of shit. So we headed downstairs to where the dance party and boozing was going on: my sort of shit. The night kept on going, we were boozing, we were mingling, I was making bff's with a gay boy named Will, I could smoke inside, I was very, very happy. The next thing I knew, it was 6am when we left. Yup, 6am. Again, if you know me AT ALL you know that after a night of boozing, I'm the FIRST person to pass on late night and just pass out. I don't think I've ever stayed up until 6am without the help of some very strong upper-type of prescription drugs. I really don't know what it was, I think London has turned me into a late night partier, crazy Euro-chick and it kind of scares me.

At this point, my friend and I didn't even mess around with fucking buses at that point and we shared a cab home, or in the general direction of home with Will and another guy. I actually went back to Will's place for another drink and some more indoor smoking. The sun had now risen before I even started to think, "Hmm....maybe I should get my ass home". I took a cab home (now I'm rolling large with TWO cabs home in one night!). It was def. 8am when I strolled into my house. To say the least my parents, mainly my mom, were pissssed. My "good excuse" as to why it wasn't bad that I was out until 8am was that I was hanging out with a gay dude. Jesus, I am smart. The next day, once I finally woke up, was not a pleasant one. I was scared shitless of my mom once I actually remembered what the hell happened the night before, but hey, I'm here typing to y'all about it, so I did live through the punishment, but if there are slightly a few more typing errors that is because I am now typing with only one hand.

Lesson learned from the second trip to Brixton: learn how to use a fucking cell phone and call your parents and tell them you're not dead.

Peace, love and kisses bitches!

I have a problem.....

....but at least I can admit it. No, it's not my alcohol addiction, smoking problem or my constant and sometimes dangerous use of drugs, it's making out with random Brits. Yes, last night I went home with a British man. To be a little more fair to myself, I did know him before from my summer abroad in Oxford. He worked there, and we were just a little more than acquaintances. We meet last night for pints at a pub. There were at least 6+ pints of cider involved per person. He's not seriously attractive, but I was seriously drunk. Apparently I can't control myself after multiple pints and when there's an English accent involved. This happened last week as well. The only difference was that he came home with me and was more attractive, but that's the only reason I brought him home as opposed to me going to his place. But I am out of fucking control. I've always been an Anglophile, but this is too far. I really need to stop. I'm afraid I will contract some crazy British STD like Herpeshire of the mouth. Get it? I added a "shire" to the end of "herpes". Well, I thought it was clever as hell. So fuck off. Honestly, who knows though. I'm getting nervous. But then I really do need to live it up with as many English men as possible, while I'm still here. So far it's been three English men, one Irishman and then another Polack or something of that sort.

Ok, well I'm glad I got that off my chest because I needed to tell someone and my parents really aren't the audience I was looking for.

The Future, and It Doesn't Look So Bright

Alright everyone. Yes, I've been getting a little depressing and a bit suicidal lately on this here blog, but I live with my parents, I have to get my negative & dark thoughts out some way and that way is on this blog. Also, if it gets too dark there are plenty, and I mean plenty, of happy and silly blogs out there, so sorry if I'm depressing everyone who stops by during their day for a little pick me up.

Today's post will not be any different. Sadly, it's a little sad...haha. Last night I was lying in bed thinking about why I'm single but not always ready to mingle. I also thought about all the annoying kids I see around my neighborhood around 3:30pm right when they are getting out of school. And I eventually moved my thoughts onto marriage. I've always been the one who wanted to get married, have kids and stay at home and raise them while cooking dinners for the whole family each night. But after seeing all these kids screaming and running into me, I look at their mother's, or more likely their nanny's, irritated and exhausted faces, I can't help thinking that I don't want that. I don't want to have to give it all away to a child, and it's not just giving it all away, but giving it all away for years and years. At least two decades and probably much more time. It's tiring just thinking about it. I love kids, but at least at this point in my life, the thought of having kids is too much. Not that I'd have them now, God no, but I can't help thinking if I'll ever make it there. I don't know. Maybe I won't and maybe that's not such a bad thing. My parents will def freak out and never forgive me for not giving them grandchildren, but that might be worth it to keeping my life selfish, just like it is now. I like being selfish. Selfish with my time, my energy, my everything. I can't do that with kids, at least if I want to be a half way decent parent. And if I'm going to be a parents, it's all or nothing. No half way, bullshit stuff. I will be a parent and be an awesome parent or I will forget about it all! Nothing in the middle will work for me, but hey, that's me.

As for marriage. OMG there's another life long commitment that I'm just not ready to make. I mean, does anyone really have the authority to make an oath that includes this sentence: "for better of for worse...til death do us part". I'm sorry but shit can get real "worse" real quickly and I might wanna get the hell outta there. I mean shit, how do I know what I want and who I want to be with when I'm 86?! I don't know who I want to be with next week and I'm not in any place to make another life long decision like that.

Besides being emotionally immature and such, those were my musings last night before going to bed. Good thing I won't be having any sweet dreams tonight.....

Loneliness & Love - The All Important "L" Words

Tonight, as most of my nights start out, I had to force myself to get dressed in anything other than sweats. Living with your parents really slows down your social life, as well as your will to live. My will to live only includes living in sweats, but hey, they're Juicy sweats, so that makes me f-ing "cool" lazy. This new life choice of sweats at all times has been exacerbated by the sun setting at 4:30pm. I mean, it's fucking pitch black at 5:15pm. So at about 6pm I'm ready to watch an hour of tv and hit the hay. Hence, another reason why my social life has suffered. People don't even go out to dinner in London until after 8pm and by this time I've been solidly asleep for over an hour. The idea of going out and grabbing a drink at 10pm is just God damn ridiculous. But my struggle to get into the shower this afternoon/dark time was my Everest, but I did it. I even made it past base camp. I had a good sherpa though, I only have him to thank. So, thank you Sherpa Luigi.

My climb to Everest was needed because we were meeting family friends for drinks then dinner. These family friends are judgmental, so it's best I don't show up to dinner smelling of a fisherman out to sea for many months without a bar of soap to cleanse properly. We did drinks at an ornate pub in Maida Vale, then dinner at a cool Italian restaurant in Marylebone. Most of you reading this, won't have a fucking clue what I'm talking about, but it's cool, I know what I'm talking about. At least, I think I know what I'm talking about....

After dinner I was supposed to meet an old friend from Oxford, yep I'm that awesome: I went to Oxford, so I'm like a genius. Moving on, since I have to go pay my monthly Mensa dues, I told my friend I would call him (yes, I do actually talk to boys sometimes! go me!) after dinner to meet up for a drink. Read: 6 large ciders. We started dinner at 7pm, which is actually very early for a Saturday night, but it took a long time, the waiters sucked and were slow, so we didn't get out of dinner until 10:15pm. So I did the only thing that I seem to do anymore, I rejected my only offer of social contact with someone my own age and texted my friend and called off drinks. How totally, completely and ludicrously sad and pathetic is that?! I'm such a fucking loser. One thing in my defense, the tube line (Jubilee) I would take to get to his part of town was totally shut down for repairs this weekend. That makes everything so much harder and I'm poor so I don't want to have to deal with cabs, unless it's 3am and I don't know where my hand is let alone the fucking tube station. Get what I'm saying? Ok, to be honest, I was just tired and needed a semi-decent excuse to convince myself that drinks wouldn't be a good idea.

I mean, if you knew me during my hay-day, there was not a night I wouldn't go out or that I wouldn't be drinking. I have seriously fallen down a deep, dark and scary hole of soberness and social hemitude. Now I understand how people have no friends or are old and just stay in their house all the time. This process starts off with you being lonely and bored, so your forced to waste time with things like tv and sleeping. Then when someone does ask you out you're excited at first, but the idea of getting outside and trying to make conversation is intimidating, but you go and make the effort because you haven't breathed fresh air in days. You go out, have a reasonably good time, but it really wasn't worth the effort. Then you start to turn down offers every once and a while, unless it's something really good. When those "really good" times turn out to be okay, but they will never, ever compare to a night with Vinny, E, Turtle, Johnny & Ari, who always deliver on a good time. You suddenly are addicted to stupid-ass shows which are actually in Italian and you are constantly saying "no" to going out. Soon you get a cat, then two, then ten and you smell like cat piss 24/7 and you decide the only way to have fun is a bottle of pain killers and three bottles of Chardonnay, or if you are real classy, you'll just stick to the box. Not only have you not breathed fresh air in days, because you can have everything delivered right to your door, you can't even see the other wall because of the amount of cigarette and bong smoke that has filled your house. Again, I'm just guessing this is how it goes, I really don't know from personal experience. Not at all.

So from skipping out on another invite out to booze, I went home on the tube with my parents. In our carriage, there was a teenage couple who showed more affection to each other in three minutes than I've ever had in my entire life (from a man, my parents hug my all the time, so that's no problem). I was thinking about this while overtly starring at them. Why haven't I had this type of affection with a man? These kids weren't like grossly making out, the boy was just stroking her hair and kissing her hand: I almost fucking cried. I'm 24 3/4 so why have I never let a guy get that close? Have I been avoiding this type of intimacy like I would avoid a leper colony, the Ebola virus, or a half-off sale at the felt store? Have I been too drunk and skipped right past all the lovey dovey stuff? Or could I honestly not remember it because of a horrible, glorious thing called booze beverages? Is it because God hates me? I still can't figure it out..... this is what I'll be thinking about tonight, but if I do right and continue to drink maybe I'll numb my brain and not have to think about this until I push away another guy! Awesome.

Rambling that starts with the topic of "Oldness"

You know what, I've been thinking about how old I am and it's scary. Since my 22nd year of being on the planet, I've hated birthday's. I mean, after 21 there is not one God damned thing to look forward to, except maybe renting a car at 25 and now you can do that underage, you just have to pay more money! I mean, fuck! Life is just a fast track to Alzheimer's after 21. I hate my life. I'm turning 25 in a few months and that is a freakin' quarter of a century. It might as well be 50. I have no boyfriend, I have no job, soon I won't have a place to live and I'm really thinking my friends will remember how boring I was when I return to the States. That's my most terrifying thought: that my friends will have missed me all this time I've been gone, come to find out that when I'm back, I wasn't really that good of a friend (I never listen) or that much fun (because after 12 drinks I just become a waste to everyone and just a plain, old burden to those lucky enough who are responsible for my well bring), or EVEN WORSE, I wasn't that funny. That is honestly my worst fear in life (after paper cuts on my eye ball, and pigeons and rats oh and crushed velvet. Man, do I have a lot of fears!) but I'm so scared someone will think I'm not funny. People could tell me I'm fat, because that's true, or a bad dresser, because we all know that's not true or ugly because that's kind of true, but someone telling me I'm not funny, that has just crossed the fucking line partner! Also, sorry for the over-usage of commas, but I've always had a problem adding too many commas into sentences since grammar school. Like I think having more is better then forgetting to add them in. Whateves. Oh also, I used to add an "e" to the end of every word. Like I would add an "e" to party, so it would be spelled "partye". I guess this really could have worked for me if I lived in the 10th century and we spoke Ye Olde English. Wow, was that a rant. I barely know where or why I started.

Oh, ya so I'm getting old. There's that. Also, I'm broke. Broke out of my mind, but I guess that's what happens when you don't have an income for 6 months and you have an addictive/obsessive personality and high tolerance to alcohol, drugs and dairy products. This makes things expensive when you're ready for get wasted on cider and you drink chocolate milk intravenously by the gallon. Things get expensive & scary. Never ever piss off a drunk girl who is high on the chocolate milk (or "mud" as I call it on the streets). It can get violent and messy, with all that chocolate milk and brie.....yikes. Damn, brie is good. I could really used some warm brie with cranberry sauce on it smeared onto a water cracker. Sounds like heaven to me. That and a never-ending fountain of Strong-b. That would be sick-ass awesome!

Well everyone, sorry for the let downs when you check this here blog religiously everyday and you get nothing new for a while. I'm pretty fucking busy okay, and probably sober, so there's two reasons why I wouldn't be posting.

love you all!

P.S. I still haven't found Ed....stupid bastard must have missed my e-mail about meeting in London. I bet he's still waiting in NYC for me....and you think technology would help this problem...sheesch.

Nelly

OMG, today was a big day. I saw my first pair of Apple Bottom Jeans on a real live lady. It was fabulous. If you know me, you know I don't use the word fabulous, but these were. I NEED to get myself a pair of Apple Bottom Jeans....
I just really think they would make my life so much better. This girls jeans had a gold plaque with the emblem on them and then gold chains hanging off the top of the back pockets. I mean, what could be better in life?! Not much, I can tell you that for sure!

Random, Random Thoughts

First, I've downloaded the UK's top 40 songs since I need to know what the cool songs are here in London. I don't have a car and that was where I would listen to the radio and learn about the new songs. Now I just have to illegally download them on Limewire. Because of this, I've learned about a ton of new artists and new songs. They are mostly some type of techno song, but I've really become accustomed to them, and I've really started to enjoy them.

Secondly, me and my mother drink. If you've read this blog, or know anything about me, you know that I can drink. I can drink with the best of them, like up there with the Russians. My mom always has a couple glasses of wine each night. Around 5pm, sometimes earlier, we start pouring drinks. My dad doesn't get home until 7pm or later and he never drinks. So it's just me and my mom drinking, every night. Occasionally my dad does drink, like tonight. His drink of choice is scotch on the rocks or Guinness. Tonight my dad had two scotch on the rocks, which is almost unheard of! Tonight, I also learned that my dad is a light weight. It was a sad night. I suspected this before, but tonight it was confirmed. I mean, I think I'd rather hear my dad was doing coke or had a second family, but no, God had to curse me with a light weight father. He got all giggly and playful like a fucking middle schooler drinking Smirnoff Ice. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life and I was at home with my parents. Not that I even want to attempt giving my dad a good reason for being a light weight, but apparently we have some "alcoholics" in our family history. If you ask me, that's a fucking lie. Or my second opinion would be that that just makes us awesome, but that's neither here nor there. My dad doesn't drink because he's afraid of becoming an alcoholic like some other people in our family....ex. ME! I mean shit, HE'S worried about becoming an alcoholic, why don't you take a look at your offspring. She has become an upstanding, participatory and generous person of the community, the alcoholic community is what I'm talking about. He thinks that two scotch's are going to put him over the edge into alcoholism, while his daughter is out there binge drinking (because that's the only way to drink) until she can't remember who she saw out that night, let alone how the fuck she got home. Okay, this is enough about the drinking problems in my family.

Thirdly on the random topic post, well I really don't have a thirdly, but I'm dying for a cigarette. My parents are almost asleep and I'm just waiting for the moment when I hear the two heavy snors and then I'll pop outside for my night cap ciggy. Strong-b and ciggs are a match made in heaven and who am I to keep the two angels apart from each other?!?!

Oh and nextly for all those illeterait readers out there, here's a pic for you from the British Museum of pimp cups.

You're welcome.

Also to all my pimps in Dallas, I miss y'all. You know who you are, so I don't even have to say, but just in case here are the first letters of each of your names....I love you R, C, D, K, F & C!!!!

E-mail me if you're not sure if that's your initial. Actually, if you're not sure if it's your initial, don't ask because it's not your fucking initial.

Good night and God speed!

Market Quest

Even though my blog is named “I’m with Ed” I really don’t talk about my beloved lover very much. I am currently living in his home country (England), even though he is in mine (USA by way of NYC). I’m still looking for him here though. Maybe I’m hoping to run into his old school mates and such, I really don’t know, I’m just keeping my eyes open for him and/or any other gorgeous English man here.

One of my quests for Ed was in preparation of a BBQ. My parents decided to have a BBQ today. It is late September and was a beautiful, sunny, and warm weekend in London. Soon we will be facing sundown at 4pm, so we made hay while the sun shined, or whatever that phrase is. And yes, I’m really that cool that I hang out with my parents and have BBQ’s with their friends. Whatever, I love me some BBQ and I love boozing with Americans….so it's all good. So to prepare for this Sunday's BBQ, my dad and I went to the grocery store yesterday and today to get ready. Side note, we don’t have a car since we live in London, so we took the trolley, aka a pull cart and three reusable bags for both trips. Honestly, the trolley was totally filled with booze both times, but the trek home (uphill) is rough, but I'm willing to make the sacrifice for tons o' booze at a BBQ. So after a few trips to the market, I've learned a few things: one, old hippie ladies still think it’s okay not to shave their legs. OMG this lady’s legs were like men’s legs. It was pretty damn sick. I mean, I’m down with the hippies. Hell, I went to a hippie school as a child. I’ll hug trees, compost my biodegradable waste and eat tofu any day, but to not shave your legs is going too far. It just gives hippies a bad rep. It's way worse for their reps than orgies and psychedelic drugs were. Uhh....it's just makes me mad. The next thing I learned was much more glorious and came in the form of a plastic container:

Yes, my friends, I've found bottled wine in plastic, portable carrying devices. This was almost as good as when I found the 2 litre plastic bottle of Strongbow. This was a good day for me. Anything in plastic is sweet because my clumsy ass can't break it and I can bring this shit to a football game or any other sort of outdoor drinking activity.....pretty much anything that happens in my life. I'll leave you with that beautiful picture. Just soak it up. Enjoy it. Live it and love it. If you need one of these bad boys, drop me a line and I'll get you one for about 5 pounds, with of course 10 pounds charge that goes straight into my pocket.

Thank you and good night.

Bars, Clubs & Gays

Well, I just wanted to throw down another post before I left for the rest of week. I'm heading to Romsey, a place in the English countryside. I'm not looking forward to this because I love London and there's plenty to do here, why would I go to the country? What makes this even worse is that we will be traveling with our two dogs. This requires taking them on the tube & then the train, so this should be pretty interesting. Either they will need to be sedated, or I will. I'm going with my mom to meet up with one of her friends. Since I'm on such a role for posting, I'll hit y'all with an old school one from back a few weeks ago when my crew came to visit. (haha, my crew, shit I'm cooliolio).

Ok, so things I've learned about British men and European men in general: they are ready to hook up. I don't know if it's because we are American and they think we are on vacation and therefore, anything goes or just because they are more up front with their sexuality then their American counterpart. Either way, it's awesome for me!

One bar has really been a gold mine for me is a special little place called O'Neills. I've mentioned this place before, but just in case you just started reading this blog (haha, I know, as well as you do, that no one new has started to read, but for my ego let's keep on pretending) When I say this bar is a  little place, I mean a four story pub-like bar. I've been there 3 times and each time I've succesfully made out with a dude. First time, a Polack and/or Russian, I can't say for sure. Second time (my greatest conquest as of yet) was a English dude from Birmingham. He was an American history teacher and absolutely precious. With British people being so up-to-date on world affairs and other shit like that, and with this dude being a teacher of American history, he honestly knew more about my country than I did....a bit embarrassing, but after a few pints, I sure didn't care. The third time at O'Neills included an Irish guy in the British Army. His name was Patrick and his friends called him Paddy. An Irishman named Paddy, trust me, I did NOT let him live this one down. I don't think they thought it was that funny, but I sure as shit got a kick out of it!

Ok, well the "Birmingham trip" to O'Neills was filled with my ladies & gent: C, R & D. Two of these peeps also had a nice little make out sesh. I will not reveal who it was to protect their safety and reputation because I honestly think that they were minors and I'm not quite clear on the British laws of statutory rape, but let's just say it was good that only making out occurred because I honestly don't have that type of money to be bailing people out of the clink. But to say the least, the evening was amazing. It was spent on the patio deck upstairs (aka smokers area) and the music hall where it was forgivenly dark and played live music. Perfect place to make out. I actually think they seriously designed it just for that! There were plenty of dark corners....I mean, it's great!

During my friends trip here, we went to another bar called G-A-Y.

I'm not sure if you picked up what type of bar it was by the name, but yes, it was a gay bar located in Soho. At first we couldn't get in because it was members only. This "members only" business sadly happens a lot in London and I'm really not sure why. Maybe to keep the crazies out, maybe just to seem more exclusive, but I have never, in my 24 years of living, seen a members only gay bar, well at least not in America. We decided to pass on the lame members only gay bar and find another gay bar until D found an extremely gay boy walking back towards this bar. D worked his magic with the boy and got us into G-A-Y! We danced our hearts out to random songs that have never made it Stateside aa well as many good ol' American classics. Someone out of the group picked up a straight British Army guy. Apparently they were all out partying before being shipped off the Afghan, as they called it. The gay bar was hot, sweaty and had dudes giving handjobs in the booths, so pretty much everything you could ask for out of a gay bar. The only thing that made me seriously sad was the disgusting restrooms. They were co-ed, which is fine because it's all gay dudes anyways, but the stench was horrible. I also did not wash my hands because they would have been cleaner if I had pissed all over my hands rather then wash them at the sink....uhh....not cool. I mean, I thought gay men were known for their cleanliness. I was disapointed that it was so unclean as well as the gays not living up to their stereotype. If gay men start to not live up to their stereotypes, what will we do with the minorities and the Muslims? It will flip my world on it's head and I will flip the fuck out....I really can't deal with this right now.

Well, I'm off to the country and you won't hear from me for a couple days, not that that is a big surprise, as we all know, I'm not really into "regular" posting. So fuck off! 

Hugs and kisses for all!

I knew I never liked Canadians....

Sorry, to my three readers for being so delayed in posting. As you know, I've been busy entertaining you in London. Also, getting any sort of motivation is really quite tough, but here we are! Another month, another post. I'll try and keep up on my strict regimen of one post per month. I have so much to post about, I'm actually going to keep it relatively simple and post about my evening last night. Don't worry C, R & D your posts will be coming soon! And that was "posts" plural. I have two sweet posts in mind, maybe even three if I'm feeling drunk another night!

Ok, so last night I met up with a friend of C's who now lives in London. We went over to her classmates flat in Camden. Here's some background, Camden is a very funky, hip and young part of London. During the day it's a huge street market with a ton of shopping where you can find anything from Lebanese food to tattoo parlors to a store selling just tights and leggings. At night, all of those booths closes down and the night life there is great. Whatever, this is boring, I'm boring myself. The best part of the night out in Camden was at the flat we were pre-partying at. The girl had an English flatmate. When he came home he grabbed a beer and went to watch tv. I was talking to someone and from the living room I heard the familiar words of "Ahh...you're an organ donor". This just reassured my love of the English. This dude was watching Superbad, we were kindred spirits. It just made me smile for the rest of the night. Ok, that was random and didn't really have a good ending point, sooo on to the bar. 

We went to a great bar in Camden that is called Proud. It is a bar that is converted old horse stalls. Great place, been there a lot. There's live music, huge dance floor, awesome bars in the horse stalls and a ginormous patio. Win, win, win, win. Once we got inside, we headed outside relatively soon since it was about 100 degrees Fahrenheit inside and the British don't really believe in air conditioning. The patio, is my fav part of the bar because it's cool outside and I can smoke. Well, it was a group of 8 of us girls. I was talking to the friend I came with and another girl, from Canada...uhhh.....gross. I already didn't like her, not that I do snap judgement or anything. Fuck that, we ALL judge too quickly, but once you say your Canadian, everything else you say after that is Chinese to me. Since there is a smoking ban in England and pretty much everywhere else in the world, except maybe Kuwait, man I should look into moving there. But about 90% of the population still smokes in England, and the patio is usually filled with drunk smokers: my type of people. Since I appeared to be the only one in our group who smoked, I asked politely if anyone minded if I smoked even though the open-air patio pretty much resembled the back of a car after hot boxing a huge blunt. I was just asking to be courteous, because I'm one of those "nice" smokers who care about other non-smokers. After I asked if everyone was ok with my smoking, this Canadian loser said "As long as you don't blow it in my direction". Ohhh mannn, I was about to drop kick her face. I don't say "hate" much, but this bitch had to go. Then she proceeded to talk about how smoking is so bad for you and your lungs. Wait, hold up, smoking is bad for you? I'm confused? Even baffled. There is not one shred of scientifical research that proves this theory. No one has ever told me this. I just thought that all the smoking warnings on the cigarette packs were lies. 

I'm just SO fucking glad she was there to tell me that smoking was bad for my health. As soon as I heard these words, I put out my cigarette, threw away my pack and decided never to touch those cancer sticks again. Ya the fuck right. Even with all of her impressive facts and figures, I'm still here and I'm still smoking so she can suck it, especially when I die a young death because of lung cancer and she lives to be an old lady with no fun stories of when she was younger. Hey man, live fast, die young. Whatever, I'm over that Canadian whore. I knew I never liked Canadians, I just never had a really good reason. It was just something I felt in my bones that told me they were bad, bad people. I mean, do they really consider themselves a state? All they have are weird accents when they say stuff like "Hello" or "I hate myself for being born here". Alright, I'm moving on past the state just North of the greatest country ever made in the world! 

After a night out with "normal" people. And when I say "normal" I mean, not my friends and people who don't know about my excessive habits of drinking and smoking. What I have learned from these normal people is that I apparently do drink a lot. I mean, I've always known I've had a proficiency for drinking, but this was just sad. I started the evening with 1/2 a bottle of wine with my mom at dinner, then I was pounding Presseco at the flat pre-party and then bought another bottle of wine (and shared) at Proud then proceeded to have 3 more Bud Ice's. Even the self-proclaimed "drinker" of the group rejected going to the bar again with me, saying "I think I've had enough". What the fuck type of "drinker" says they've had too much.....this made me sad. That's all I can say about it. Apparently I need to make British friends ASAP so I can at least be challenged with a good ol' binge drinking sesh, because these Americans are just pathetic. Sorry guys, America needs to step up their drinking....well, at least these bitches need to!