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!

Sexy Music

Oi, oi, oi bruvs! That's cockney, duh! I had an AWESOME day in London. I'm not lonely anymore, I'm honestly just thinking about how I can stay here longer (preferably not living under my parents roof) but whateves. I'm planning a 10 day trip with my 3 besties, I'm out and about with family friends and I went to the pub today and chugged 2 pints of Strong-b in a matter of minutes...my day is going great bitches! But I would like to go back to an earlier day in age, sometime around last Friday....when I went to go see "Coco Avant Chanel". That's French for "Coco Before Chanel". I've learned French while living in Europe. I'm so fucking cosmopolitan it's crazy! So I went in the afternoon, because that's when all the other losers who see movies by themselves go, but usually I'm surrounding by some couples, random peeps and the occasional single person (thank G), who I love because then I'm not the only single person in the movie theatre, not that it really matters because it's dark and I'll never see these loser again. So while I was waiting for Coco Avant Chanel to start, I realized I was in a theatre FILLED with old ladies. I mean old ladies, like on their death bed ladies. The best part was, the song that was playing when I walked in was "I'll Make Love to You" by Boys II Men...ahahaha. That's enough to make my day and keep me laughing for a while, but the next song that came on was, and remember this is for an "old ladies" movie, the song that came on, just to get us in the mood for the movie was 50 cent "Candy Shop".....so you can just imagine how awesome that was! I just imagined myself watching sex scenes with my g-ma....it was AWKWARD. Then the movie started, then things were cool.

Then today I went to Kensington to meet up with a family friend, who has become a serious friend, who just happens to be older. No, this is not a sexual love affair with an older lady, God, I wish, but this is a 50-something lady who is friends with me mum, but also someone who has become a great friend. We went to Whole Foods. Yes, I've vowed not to go to US chains while I'm here, but I'm meeting up with a friend, what can I say? FUCK NO, I don't want to go to Whole Foods?! I mean, this sweet lady has been paying for my lunches, so I go to freakin' Whole Foods. I mean, I've always liked Whole Foods, Central Market, any organic food market, but this was sick. So cool. The food court was amazing. As a serious/official connoisseur of food, I can tell you that this place rocked! They had separate stations for sandwiches, salads, pizza, sushi, fucking burritos, soups and for perfect gentleman. Oh wait, after burritos in London, they might as well fucking had a station for fucking perfect males.....I mean shit. I'm in love with Whole Foods, like I never was before. I've never even heard of Central Market after this shit, even though it's a proud family owned, Texas grocery store, but this shit is just not seen in this capacity in America. After my food orgasm at WF, I went about to look at the grocery section of the 3 level store. Sadly, no, they did not have my fav sonoma chicken salad, as they do in America, they had some shit brown salad that looked like turds, but it was great none the less. Sex on the salad bar....good stuff......

Ok, well after that I went to Topshop and such, but do we really need to talk about Topshop after food orgasms? Well, actually, I do bitches! Topshop was heaven. Absolute heaven. Gorgeous clothes, fabulous shoes and even more sweeter, awesomer shoes. If you haven't noticed, the shoes were AWESOME! I'm going to marry the "shoe studio" in Topshop. Too many gorgeous shoes to talk about.....I even went to TK Maxx: uhhh... gross, but I found some good shit.....surprisingly....didn't buy anything thing, but I will honestly think about going back....maybe.....ok never....no ways in God's green (for the moment, soon to be black & dead) earth! But Topshop saved my life, as well as another H&M...I think this was #78 of the H&M's in London, but they still all hold a very special place in my heart. After the eating, orgasming, clothing & shoe shopping, I decided it was very well time to get back to my neck of the woods, Hampstead, and get thyself to a library. I've read 3 books in 5 days, so I needed to refuel. After a delay in the Circle line and missing the tube on the Northern line (again, I'm just trying to show how cool I am) I decided after I got my book, it was well good time to grab a pint. I can only get a pint by myself with a book or a newspaper, since I went to the lib, I was good to go for the pint(s). I went to my standby pub King William IV, right off of the Highstreet. I grabbed a Strong-b...wow, what a surprise. I forgot to tip the cute pub boy so downed my first pint and went to grab another. I think he was seriously impressed when I got another and tipped him heavily, hoping for sexual favors laters.......none of this matters because I came home, buzzed, with no love, no pub boy and just a hunger for pretzels. That was my day. It was good, but as usual, it ended in buzzed/drunkeness/sexual longing and food....such is life.....

Diversity Day

So, I was just outside, smoking a cigg and I heard my neighbor talking on the phone in some foreign language. I'm thinking some Eastern European language, Korean or Swahili. I'm guessing it was a solid Farsi. That's the cool thing about London, it really is so diverse. Over 300 languages are spoken here, and I have a super bad ear, so anything from Cockney to Spanish sounds pretty much the same to me. But, back to diversity. Living in Dallas the past 6 years has closed my mind, and my tolerance just a bit, so it's cool living in a city where there are over 300 languages spoken on any given day, but it's NOT cool when they are your next door neighbor and they are plotting to assassinate you, your family and maybe the entire population of London. I mean, that's a full on massacre that would devastate the UK, and maybe Europe. I think the rest of the world would be okay, because, hey, the US is in good shape. We survived 9/11 and we do not tolerate terrorists and their scary languages! These colors don't run!

Strong-b gloriousness

'Nough said...

Sick. And this might get racist....

Uhhh...no, I'm not talking about the sick things in London. The sick B.O. smell that permeates everywhere, the sickness of not using the blessed thing called "ice" or the way people bump into you like you don't exist. I'm fucking sick. I believe it's from making out with the Russian/Polack. I should have learned my lesson when I got very sick from another person I made out with. Last time I got sick, it was with mono. I hooked up with a carrier, he never had it, but he carried it like goddamn carrier pigeon, like fucking Hedwig would've carried a parchment to Harry P. That shit put me out of work for 2.5 weeks and I wanted to kill myself. Only because I couldn't smoke or drink, otherwise I love skipping work, I'm all for it. So now, since I don't have my mom, or anyone else, to take care of me while I'm sick, I've got my trusty, steadfast Strongbow to get me through the tough times, the sick times, all the time. It is always there to comfort me.

On to a day-to-day subject now, I walk my 2 dogs everyday. Around the same, long, up hill block. Well, they've been doing construction on the Victorian sewage drains, whateves. There are tons of construction workers outside of my flat everyday and everyday I walk my dogs. And can I say, I've never been more happy to have 2 dogs. These construction workers are gorgeous. Yesterday, one muttered, quite loudly something in Cockney, which of course, is a foreign language, but I gathered it was something referring to my ass. Or that could just be because I'm really sensitive and self-conscience about my derriere. But unlike in America, where most construction workers are Mexican, yelling at you in God knows what language, well I guess that would be Spanish, but that's neither here nor there, but you know it's something lewd and sure as shit doesn't sound as good as the lovely British/Cockney accents that my fair London construction workers have. Oh, and some are Irish, because as they say, God stood on England, bent over and shat out Ireland....ahaha...man, that gets me every time! God shat out Ireland....nothing against Colin Firth, he's gorgeous, but I love how British people actually think that about Irish people, kind of like how Americans think that about Mexicans....woops, did I go too far there?! I'm just speaking the truth y'all....the honest truth.

So peace out, Shalom, Namaste and I'll catch you on the flip side, and NO, I still haven't found Ed....I'll keep my eyes peeled, man I hate that expression.

O'Neills

Well, it's already August, that means my three besties will be visiting me at the end of this month! I'm totes excited. We are in the planning stages and I just can't wait. I will blog a ton about those days they are here. Probably after they are gone, but don't worry all 3 of you reading this blog (the hookers who are visiting me on this trip) will be well informed of what we did for 10 days! But now, to this past weekend. 

Man was it crazy. Friday night was the first night on my own, aka I got wasted. Alone. I'm cool with that, it's what I do when I'm bored and alone. You may think it's sad, but I just think it's great entertainment. I had a great night. I made a delicious dinner, drank my body's weight in Strongbow, smoked 2 packs, fine, 3 packs of Marlboro's and passed out at 2am. It was almost, ALMOST like I went out to bars with friends, almost. I slept until 2pm (14:00 on a 24 hour clock) on Saturday. I was supposed to meet up with my friend E to go to a triathlon...whatever that is. But, I passed on that train wreck and meet up with them laters at a pub. And OMG were there some beautiful British men there watching a football match. I almost went up to a group of them and declared my love for them, but I resisted and stayed with my friends, drinking Strong-b's.

Our next stop was a restaurant off of the Angel tube stop on the Northern line (no one cares, I'm just trying to show off my awesome knowledge of the London underground) the restaurant was called Cuba Libre, just like a Cuban restaurant in Dallas. Good food, but on to the better stuff. Next, we went to O'Neills in Soho. It's a huge pub, but it's filled with tourists and has a cover, which I usually have a very strict policy about, but I'm with new friends, I can't be picky like I normally would with real friends. So I paid 8 pounds to get into this pub, but it was worth it! Had a few more Strong-b's.....at this point I was double fisting, and this is when, what I like to call a "bar miracle" happened. 

This phrase was coined back in high school when we went to bars in LA, but in O'Neills, I had my 2 pints, which are difficult to hold while pushing through a group of foreigners, but if I screamed "pardon me" people would see my 2 pints, realize the magic of double fisting and the seas would part like I was freakin' Moses. It was awesome! One thing I can say for London, is that people respect their pints, especially when a lady (term used loosely) is handling 2! It was complete magic. After a few more double fisting rounds at the bar, it was time to smoke. 

I'd been good and holding out since I had to walk up 3 flights of stairs to get to the damn smoking patio, I mean are we in Europe, fuck! I feel like I'm in shitting Oregon! But, I headed upstairs to the patio, at this point I found this gorgeous British man. I was ready to ask him to marry me when HE followed ME, not the reverse, back down the 3 flights of the pub trying to chat with me. I was in love. I would say I have some standards, kind of, but the British men work their spells on me so well they could be Quasimodo and I wouldn't care, but my group was leaving. We actually came back and this large Russian, maybe Polish man, forced me to dance with him, I couldn't help myself and I made out with him. I could barely understand what he was saying to me, but the language of love transcends all countries, languages and dialects, just like math, it's the universal language. Well, Gabor, that's his name, who I couldn't understand, not even his name until he typed it into my mobile. Yep, I'm using the word mobile because I've been in London for 2 weeks and it's time to admit it, I'm English, so I might as well use my county's language. Oh and also, I got the Russian/Polack's number. Woohoo! Score for me. Not really.

As I was talking with a foreigner (American) remember, I'm British now! He was telling me how weak their cocktails were here and I remembered my greatest invention in England: the quad-vod. Let me explain myself, British single shots are the same amount as American 1/2 shots. So to get a double vodka soda in England is like getting a regular vodka soda in America. Being the college girl in Oxford, trying to get drunk as quickly as possible, I came up with the greatest invention in England, quadruple shots of vodka in a cocktail...aka double vodka cocktail...aka Quad Vod. They never really understand this whenever I ordered it, so the quad vod quickly became the double vodka soda with a double shot on the side. Once they gave me the drink and the shot, I promptly poured the shot into the cocktail and gave the bartender a disgusted look and as loudly as possible said, "Now this is how you make a drink bitches!" and walked away to the dance floor. Someone's got to show these hookers who's boss! Damn, I'm just trying to watch out for all y'all American whores who wanna get drunk here...soo...you're welcome! Shalom and goodnight.

Seeing movies alone...

Well, sadly this was not a first. I mean, I've seen movies in theaters by myself. Lame, I know. It's even lamer that my first movie I ever saw by myself was LOTR (Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship) because none of my friends wanted to see it with me. Yep, I'll admit it, I love LOTR. I love Star Wars, but I loathe Star Trek, now that's just for total dorks. I know you're thinking, wow she loves LOTR and Star Wars, but she thinks Star Trek is lame. Well, it's really just how I feel. But, I'm a geek at heart. What can I say? I remember having slumber parties (in Middle School) where we would try our very best to watch all 3 Star Wars movies, this was before the new, CG, slightly decent Star Wars movies came out. In Middle School we never made it past The Empire Strikes Back, but I digress. So I went to see a non-nerdy movie by myself: "The Proposal". Chick-flick. Cute. I'm a sucker for romantic comedies. I have been since I was little. So I went to see this movie because both of my parents left me in London to head back home to LA. It's okay because I can do whatever I want here. Drink, smoke have massive orgies....j/k. I just drink and smoke by myself while my two lovely dogs watch. They are my heart and if they weren't here to accompany me while I cook, drink and smoke, my friends would have a international suicide case on their hands.

After the movie, which I loved, because I've loved Ryan Reynolds was staring in it, and I've loved him since he first came onto the movie scene in one of the greatest movies ever made....National Lampoon's: Van Wilder. I mean I've seen that movie at least 40 times. I would watch it and re-watch it with my high school friends until we could recite each and every line to each other....you know, back when that was cool. After the movie I went to Sainsbury (a grocery store here in London) to shop for my dinner tonight. I made Creamy Lemon Chicken with Roasted Potatoes & Artichokes. It was good. That's what I have filled my days with here in London...cooking. It's awesome because I'm getting the experience that I've never had time for before, so this is now the highlight of my day.

So now, I've made dinner, which was decent, but I roasted the potatoes too long and honestly I'm full on Strongbow and cigarettes. And now I'm blogging, just like I promised....only after drinking. You're welcome!

Once I finished preparing dinner (and drinking 4 Strongbows, which are in larger portions then the regular canned beer in the US, because England is awesome!) I decided I needed to drink more. I'm here alone with nothing else to do, so I do what I usually do when I'm bored....I drink. I'm on my 5th Stongbow and feeling great! But one thing that did annoy me on my trip to Tesco (another grocery store here, come on people, get with it) was that I sobered up a bit on my walk there. Not freakin' cool. And then, when I went to check out with my 4 pack of Strongbow and 1 litre of Strongbow and ciggs the check-out lady asked me if I was having a party. No! I'm not having a party. I just want some cider! Lord! Are we in North Korea?! I would get this question in America as well. I'm just trying to buy my weeks/nights worth of booze and I get the derogatory question of "are you having a party?". No lady, I just wanna booze. And if that boozing is by myself, then so be it! Damn it, I can't escape that shit, even here in the land of drinking....now that shit is just messed up! I will close tonight with...the road goes on forever and the party never ends....sorry, I was listening to Robert Earl Keen while cooking. You know what, I'm not fucking sorry. He's awesome.

The Beginning

First of all, I can't spell. It took me 6 tries to spell "beginning", no fucking joke! How sad is that?! I actually had to go into Microsoft fucking Word to get the right spelling. I mean, I graduated from SMU as an English major and I can barely spell....that really shows you what money can buy you....not fucking much! Well, except friends. 

Secondly, I've picked up where my glorious predecessor (KH) stopped, quite shortly, might I add. I will be blogging after drinking (her super original idea). I'm like the Vince Vaughn character in Wedding Crashers, taking after his truly genius antecedent, Will Ferrell. But this is the the only way I can think to do things best. My mind will be in the right place, I will be more truthful and just things will be greater, for you and for me!

Thirdly, I'm an American living in London. That was my blog title, but like 30 people already had that title, and it's too generic, so I went with "I'm with Ed" much more fitting for me. This was all with the help of my bff R. 

Just as I said, this blog is named "I'm with Ed" this refers to my (temporary) glorious countrymen Ed Westwick. Famed as Chuck from Gossip Girl. If you didn't know that, then you probably shouldn't be reading this blog. It's just that simple. I will talk about simple things, but important in my life. If you don't get it, please don't ask questions, just Google it. It will be easier for all of us, and by that I mean me.

Now that was the just the intro, to start my first blog post I need to lay down this info: I've always loved London. I've been an anglophile since I can remember. Watching Pride & Prejudice with Colin Firth time and time again, loving England from the first time I stepped foot on this magnificent land and wishing and failing horribly to have my very own British accent. (I tried this once in England and an American told me I sounded stupid, so ya.) I spend a summer semester at Oxford and it was possibly the best few months of my life. Really, best ever. I couldn't really tell you what I did, but I could tell you where I drank at. The classes started at 8am and the nights went well after 2am filled with massive, and I mean massive amounts of alcohol. We were champions, living, drinking gods. Well, some of us. Of course, my peeps were all champs, but that's a different story which includes snorting spicy British mustard, but again, a different story and I don't honestly think I would consider snorting spicy mustard would rank at the level of champion anymore, but those were the days. But now, back to present day...

My 2 weeks here in London have consisted of walking around, lunching and shopping. Ya, ya, ya it's sounds amazing, and it's actually been pretty cool, but throw in living with your parents, missing the shit out of your friends in America and not being able to smoke, life gets a bit rough! The past few nights have been me staying up late watching horribly old American tv re-runs and talking to my friends over gchat. And when I say talking to friends over gchat, I mean annoying the hell out of them while they are at work. The time difference blows a big one. Usually they just ignore me, take 10 minutes to respond or I'll just keep talking until they throw me a frickin' bone of a resonse of "haha ya". Each day I see myself missing home more and hating my life in London just a little bit more. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love London, but without friends, endless drinking sessions and smoke filled pubs, this place feels like prison....and a total fucking sham of what I remember as London!

To end on a happier note, my dad leaves for America tomorrow (my mom's already there), so I'll be back to filling my lungs with carcinogens, namely tobacco ladened products. Sweet! Sounds good to me.