| Boating Voyage |
[May. 14th, 2006|08:02 pm] |
|
I've created a livejournal for my Intercoastal Journey. God, that sounded lame. But I know you'll go to www.livejournal.com/users/yehlevoyage anyway. |
|
|
| Memories of my weekend of freedom |
[Dec. 2nd, 2005|12:39 am] |
Winn and I were finally going to go camping, after weeks of promises and procrastination and work. But we were accomplishing that goal with my brother and all the boys I grew up with, meat and potato boys that love to anger women, especially a sister figure, with jeers about their inferiority. In typical fashion, I was sent on the grocery shopping trip, with explicit instructions that extensive amounts of beer and meat were absolutely necessary. Winn and Matt, the two guys who linger more on land than at sea, accompanied me.
Our purchases for 15 people (7 men and 5 women):
80 beers
12 Smirnoff Ice
20 hamburgers
24 hotdogs
cheese, buns, etc.
charcoal
18 eggs
bacon
We returned to my house, triumphant in our assured victory. We had surely gotten enough alcohol and food to feed these beasts. Surely.
But my brother corrected at me the minute I unloaded the car.
"This is not enough."
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I told you to get more."
"But I DID get more than I thought. This is a shitload of alcohol."
"This is a daytrip's worth. Guess we gotta send the guys to do it right."
"I hate you."
So Sean was sent to purchase 20 more hamburgers and 36 more beers. The alcohol alone filled the largest cooler we had - and it's a fucking huge cooler. We had to stick a few extras in a smaller one.
After we rolled up our tents and sleeping bags, and secured two large wooden platforms to the boat for our evening games of "cornhole," we were off to the island of Boca Chita at about 3 p.m. I quickly made alliances with the women who would be joining me in our imminent fight against sexism:
Kalina, my brother's girlfriend. Before her glorious arrival to the scene, my brother was a wild, untamed boy. She's the only one who can criticise his behavior without consequence, and thus he is much nicer to everyone. He has also become clean-shaven, instead of lumberjack hairy.
Tracy, Kalina's friend. A freshman at FSU who recently joined a sorority. Very excited about it all.
Bianca, long-time girlfriend of Sean, the gentleman of the group. Quiet, pretty, undoubtedly in control.
Forgothername, who stayed apart with her boyfriend for most of the trip. On the extreme side of woman-in-control. She had awoken at 7 that morning to prepare dinner for that night.
As for the guys of my past, they included:
My brother - leader, organizer, center link of the group. Nickname: G-man
Sean - one of the youngest, smoker, most engaged in drunken college lifestyle. Nicknamed by me as "Gannon's ethnic friend" as an acknowledgement of his darker (Hungarian) skin but white attitude.
Ryan - Sean's older brother, severe womanizer and sex boaster, exceedingly offensive, but humorously so. Obvious goal is to shock me at every turn. Nickname: Rymo
Jess - talkative, makes up vocabulary (i.e. "grigio" means cigarette), talks about himself in the third person, comedian of group. Nickname: JKrunk
Grant - Jess's younger brother and polar opposite, youngest, history of being picked on but now a group favorite. Nickname: GKrunk
Matt - fellow UFer (along with Grant), in popular fraternity, constantly harassed for involvement in said fraternity, most successful of group at having women friends as well as girlfriends, constantly harassed about jewish heritage. Nickname: Jewfish (actually self inflicted)
Winn - although he has known them all for five years, still the newcomer of group but much respected. Gets noticeably more sexist and macho when around the boys. No nickname - winn is weird enough.
Jim Morrison - no, I'm not kidding. That's his name.
And so with this group, we set up camp and began the drinking promptly. I think I succeeded in being the drinking winner of the girls side with a total of 9 beers. Each couple got their own tent, while singles were all stuffed into one big one. Every couple disappeared for about an hour throughout the night. Tracy, the only single girl, lamented over being forced to reside with 4 boys.
After some had collected firewood, and all the boys had eaten 2 hamburgers apiece, we turned our attention to cornhole, a game my father had bought online that had caught quickly among my brother's friends. Before this popular purchase, they played nightly games of croquet. Yes. Croquet. But don't be fooled; my family has a tendency to do yuppie things in a very drunken and liberal manner.
Cornhole requires eight sacks of corn, but all of these had been destroyed by the hurricane. And so we put rice in strips of towel and tied them up with some loose rope. We played the game for hours, throwing the sacks as close to a wooden hole as possible. Every time I was up to play, however, I was belittled.
"Oh my god. This is going to take FOREVER."
"Hey - no girls allowed.This is for the experts."
"Can you even see? How do you do that?"
The girls tried to defend me, albeit unsuccessfully:
"Stop it. She's good."
"Look! That was kind of close."
"You guys are so mean."
I finally reached a level of drunkeness that enabled me to open a beer, put it down, and forget it existed a minute later. I dragged my blow-up mattress out of my tent, stumbling and with the help of a mystery person, and positioned it next to the fire. Winn objected, but couldn't move from his seat.
I passed out cold.
A about 6:30 in the morning, half dressed and clinging to Winn, I heard voices:
"What are they doing Mommy?"
"I guess they decided to sleep outside honey."
"Why?"
"I guess that's what they wanted to do. They look cold."
All followed by laughter and approaching footsteps. Children were running around our mattress. I was sleepy, hungover, dirty and had to pee. But I persevered and drifted back to sleep as the children inspected me.
When I finally woke up, I was given a hamburger. Winn ate 3 over the course of the morning. All the boys got drunk again, while I tried not to vomit. At one point, I almost caved into the desire to drink more and get rid of the edge. But that would be admitting to alcoholism. After sunbathing, swimming and playing cornhole, we packed it all up and headed home.
We succeeded in drinking every last beer.
That night, I went to a 21st birthday party and got drunk again.
The end. |
|
|
| Seemed like a good time |
[Nov. 20th, 2005|10:15 pm] |
I always come to the livejournal when I've got other shit to write. Why is it so hard for me to do the stuff I have to do? I really failed at getting shit done this weekend. Let's recap Saturday:
Woke up at 1.
Read some Emma
Walked down the street to shindig, where I was given beer and ran into old acquaintances best left in past high school memories. More than average number of mohawks around. General punk/anarchist/I'm different because I wear stockings under my shredded skirt mentality. Fled.
Went to wards, bought carrots and meat.
Grilled meat, ate carrots.
Read Emma.
Fell asleep.
Saw movie with Steph and Casey.
I'm highly efficient at doing nothing all day. Although reading Emma makes me think that my life is much more full than some fictional characters'. Does Jane Austen really have to tell me every single fucking thing they talk about? I suppose it has something to do with a greater literary goal. |
|
|
| Winn is silly |
[Oct. 22nd, 2005|01:36 am] |
Stumbling home at 6:30 in the afternoon, Winn attacked me with slobery kisses. He tried to talk after falling off the bed several times:
"I'm a little drunk, but I'm also a little intoxicated."
He had been to the bar with friends from the lab. I'm unsure how much he imbibed over the three hours, but he's still pretty thoroughly passed out. |
|
|
| I hate Sundays |
[Oct. 16th, 2005|12:14 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  confused | ] |
Time for another episode of emily talking to herself...
I have had a constant headache for a week, I have bouts of spontaneous sleepiness and exhaustion and my nose and throat are still acting up -
Mono?
Vitamin deficiency?
Craziness?
I've tried drinking myself out of it, but that really doesn't work. I try caffeine, but that just seems unhealthy (as opposed to the drinking).
Time for some coffee.
Winn's making breakfast. I guess I was supposed to help him because he keeps yelling out ingredients to himself as such:
"One egg!"
"One egg!"
"One cup of flour!"
"One cup of flour!"
...
"Hey bitch - I mean emily."
I guess I should go. :) |
|
|
| I post when I have other things to do |
[Oct. 10th, 2005|01:25 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  mischievous | ] |
For the record, I'm very disappointed that none of my livejournal friends write anymore. How am I supposed to procrastinate?
But one who still chimes in occasionally put up a quiz and I took it.
| Your Kissing Purity Score: 31% Pure | 
You're not one to kiss and tell...
But word is, you kiss pretty well. |
Pretty good for a girl whose had a steady boyfriend for more than five years. What can I say; I'm a bit of a kiss whore. Most of them weren't even into my gender. Or all of them maybe.
In other news, I have an amazing turtle. He climbed out of the tank, fell about 4 feet to the floor and disappeared. And hes just a baby. Winn and I looked everywhere for him and finally gave up.
A week later, we were sure he was dead. I was just waiting to actually clean the house and find his little empty shell.
But instead, he climbed out from somewhere and ended up underneath my purse, on the floor of my room. Next to the million english books, thousands of bits of paper and random hair apparatuses.
He's doing fine.
Winn convinced me to play pool with him Friday night. It was going well - I actually won as many games as I lost - until winn and I simultaneously ordered a pitcher without consulting each other. We had already polished off one pitcher, and were forced to each drink another one. The waitress was impressed with our chuggery.
After a stop at the Shamrock to see a friend's band, I eventually ended up in Warren's pool in only my underwear, playing marco polo. Unfortunately sans W. But I sucked at the game and finally opened my eyes to a glaring angry cop.
Angry Cop: "Do you live here?"
Me: "My friend does."
Cop: "Is he here?"
Me: ::Silence, then stumble out of pool::
Cop: "Did you lose your clothes?"
Then he gave us a speech and wrote down all our names. But he basically said he couldn't arrest us because the complex hasn't put up a no trespassing sign. Overall, I think he was slightly amused and slightly annoyed.
While we all gave our birthdates, I felt really old. Or as really old as you can feel when you're a year or two older than everyone present. And only one of two who can legally drink.
I was hungover all the next day, and my arms hurt for some unknown reason. Casey's reaction to my complaints:
Casey: "Uh, well, you punched me a bunch of times that night."
Me: "Did I hurt you?"
Casey: "Not at all."
Could I have hurt my own arms by punching other people? Casey and Stephanie both told me to ask Winn if he did it. Winn told me to ask Steph. Hmmmmmm. I think it's a conspiracy against me.
Ok, I should go read. Or fall asleep. |
|
|
| AHHHHHHHHH |
[Sep. 19th, 2005|10:21 pm] |
I might have to take to gardening or something really calm.
That's the only allusion I'm making to convey the utter craziness of my current state.
I also have 300 pages to read tonight.
And a test Friday, which includes questions on a book I haven't read.
And some more reading and writing.
I need some fucking candy. |
|
|
| I sit. I stare. I contemplate. |
[Sep. 12th, 2005|08:06 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  tired | ] |
I'm in the Alligator, waiting for my time to come.
I'm all dried sweat and unshaven legs. My shoes smell. I don't know why I even bother to shower. The heat makes it pointless.
I played beer pong this weekend. I lost a lot and couldn't really move the next day.
I forced Steph and Casey to come. They rode over on their bikes. Steph sucks at beer pong as much as I do. I think. I can't really remember.
It's only Monday. God help me.
....
Just did all the shit in production. Should be outta here soon. So I can go home and read 200 pages of The Quaker City for tomorrow. I'm pretty sure it's as interesting as it sounds. But I haven't picked it up yet, so I don't really know. |
|
|
| Oh Robert |
[Aug. 30th, 2005|11:17 am] |
Just got a notice on my door from the landlord, Robert.
Ahem:
"You are hereby notified that you are not complying with paragraph 6 of your lease:
blahblahblahblahblah-something about no keg parties - blahblahblahblah
If this same conduct or conduct of a similar nature is repeated within twelve months, your tenancy is subject to termination without you being given an opportunity to cure the noncompliance."
A hastily handwritten note accompanies it:
"In order to be consistent, and to try to insure that similar events such as Sat night do not happen again, I must post this notice. Also, please finish cleaning up all the cups and bottles that are strewn about from 9th St. to 10th St. as a result of your party."
Dude, we didn't have any bottles. Just three kegs.
I think I'm going to call that city service that cleans up the street when some hooligan graffitis the pavement.
Sample conversation:
Me: Hello, is this the city cleaning service?
Disgruntled employee: Yes.
Me: Hooligans have been messing up my street, throwing red plastic cups everywhere! I will not stand for my street to be so strewn with garbage. Come clean it up immediately.
I've decided we can make this notice thing a sort-of game. We will post a notice on his door, outlining the parts of the lease that HE violates by keeping unsafe scaffolding in front of our house for six months.
And then he'll post another notice, showing what we've violated by not paying the rent on time.
Which we'll contest by delivering another memo that outlines how many times he's violated the lease by coming over and working on the house without giving us the required 24 hours notice.
And so on and so forth. The following memos would probably include mention of our bong collection and the house's rotting foundation. It'll be great.
On another note, I missed class today because I thought it was at 9:30, not 8:30, and I also didn't know the room number. God, I suck. |
|
|
| Pig and Party |
[Aug. 26th, 2005|11:51 pm] |
Winn, Matt and Eli are out in the backyard right now, widening a five-foot-deep hole in the dark. Our pig roast keg party is tomorrow, and the preparation couldn't be more ridiculous. It's all such a comment on our society.
Instead of helping the men, I've decided to sit in my room and write this entry. No fucking way am I shoveling damp earth and hauling dead, bleeding pig. Not my thing. And not my idea.
But watching it from a distance is enjoyable enough.
This endeavor began last Sunday with a pack of dirty, sweating guys digging the original hole in our yard. I watched and refilled water glasses. That was the end of my involvement in this mission.
Winn picked up the frozen 85-pound pig on Wednesday at a meat-packing wholesaler outside of town. Upon getting home, he realized that no store in Gainesville sold a rubber-maid container big enough to hold the beast. He settled on a plastic kiddie pool, which he plopped the pig into, filled with ice and placed conveniently in the kitchen.
Let's take a moment to describe the carcass.
The fore and hind legs are stretched to the furthest reaches in both directions. Between them, a bloody ravine reveals its chest cavity and innards all the way to the crotch. The organs have been removed, but the gaping hole is unsettling enough. The pig's eyes are open, following me where ever I walk, as if the corpse was in a last ditch effort to impersonate the Mona Lisa. Its smile is crooked and creepy - half the lower lip is missing. The meat packers must have torn it off while they prepared it. This scene is encased in a body with skin unnervingly close in pigment to my own.
And the fucking thing spent a day and a night in my kitchen. I was forced to look dinner in the eye as I ate my breakfast. As the body defrosted, the ice would shift, making it sound as if the pig was going to sit up and realize its predicament. Scary.
Before too long, however, all the ice melted, and the animal was lying in a puddle of water. Winn spend the day trying different methods of refrigeration. He sent me to get a big garbage can, but the biggest I could find was too small.
No one wanted a pig in their tub.
In the words of Matt, who has three canine children: "The dogs might tear it apart."
Meg was more honest: "I would never take a bath again. But this pig will be delicious when it's cooked."
Finally, Winn came up with what he thought was a perfect solution: He stuck it in my trunk.
My freak-out didn't shake his resolve. "But I lined it with INDUSTRIAL plastic. It'll be fine!"
Over that indestructible plastic was the pig, covered with ice to the rim. My trunk had been converted into a cooler. A cooler for a dead body.
I tried to get around Winn's logic: "But when the ice melts, what do you have?"
"Water."
"And how are you going to get all that fucking WATER out of my fucking trunk??!!!"
"I'll use a bucket. Don't worry. I really, really don't think there's a problem."
So far, I've stayed away from my car. I'm just hoping for the best.
A couple of hours ago, Matt and Winn removed the pig from the trunk, laid it on the kitchen floor and caressed its entire body with a dry rub. Now the kitchen smells like brown sugar.
They're planning to wrap the thing in plastic until morning.
On top of all this, a hurricane is out in the gulf and we're going to get some rain tomorrow.
I just hope everyone will be drunk enough to eat a wet pig. |
|
|
| A Welsh Tale |
[Aug. 13th, 2005|05:34 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  chipper | ] |
On Monday morning, Winn and I dragged our luggage (or, rather, Winn dragged all the luggage) to the London coach, aka bus, station and we randomly picked a place in Wales to spend our time. Rhossili was the lucky winner.
After a long bus journey and a night spent in a nearby city, I called a B&B listed in our trusty Rough Guide. We then made our way to the seaside town.
It had one street that wound up from the most amazing beach I've ever seen. Winn and I unloaded from the bus, looking as lost as ever, and asked the very small tourist office where Meadowview B$B was located.
With those instructions, we headed up the road, uphill. But we just couldn't find the place. We had to ask all the old Welsh people triming their lawns and stringing their laundry.
"Oh! You mean the Bakers! Oh, they're such nice people! Just go down the road a bit and you'll see a pink house on the left. You can't miss it."
We missed it.
Enter old woman prunning her garden.
"Ah, that'll be Ben and Sue Baker. Such nice people. You've gone too far. Just turn around and walk...300 metres. You can't miss it."
We miss it. So we call our hosts.
"Where are you? Just walk down the road. We're on the left. You can't miss us!"
We walk for a few minutes, and don't get anywhere. It's starting to look like we're walking into the countryside. Sheep and horses and cows are everywhere. I get a call.
"Where are you? You should be here by now." It's the wife of the married couple that own the B&B.
"I don't know. There don't seem to be any houses," I feebly reply.
"I'm literally standing in the middle of the road."
"Um..which way do we go?"
"Come back, just walk back. Turn around."
So we do. And we ask about it again. The response: "Ah! The Bakers! You can't miss it!"
I get another call from the wife.
"Just stay where you are! I'm coming to get you. Don't go anywhere."
"Ok."
"You promise? Don't go anywhere!"
"I promise. I won't move."
Literally 30 seconds later a van pulls next to us.
"You're mad! You're absolutely nutters! I just called my husband and told him you guys are crazy! It's ONE road!"
And so our Welsh adventure began, to be filled with huge beaches, prehistoric rocks and lots of farm animals. It was awesome.
By the way - We didn't stay with the Bakers. I still don't know their last name, but we stayed in Paul and Sue's home. They just rent out their extra bedroom. A rooster woke us up every morning and they cooked us breakfast together in their kitchen. What is a Welsh breakfast you ask? Thick slices of bacon, scrambled eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast, cereal, coffee and orange juice. At 8 in the morning. Jesus Christ. |
|
|
| I'm getting fat... |
[Aug. 3rd, 2005|04:48 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  hahahahahaha | ] |
But that's not the point of this entry. Just thought everyone should know.
The point is to talk about this amazing kegger bash we will be hosting at my house on August 27. There will not only be kegs of beer and various people from tallahassee, miami and gainesville, but also a whole pig roasted on a spit. Not my idea, but sounds interesting to say the least. Vegetarians keep away. It might be disturbing to see a pig's dead face watching people eat its middle. Delicious.
So everyone's invited, stalkers and true friends alike.
But listen to this paraphrased and censored conversation I had with winn about the event.
Winn: He says he'll donate $100 to the party.
Me: Yay! Because I seriously doubt I'll have any money at this end-of-the-month event.
Winn: Well....there is a catch. He wants something for it.
Me: What?
Winn: I dont know if I want to tell you..
Me: Tell me so I can get angry!
Winn: If he snags a girl at the party, he wants permission to take her to our bedroom, with the understanding that he is to clean the sheets after.
You know who you are Mr. and my answer is no! We have a shed.
Other than that, the adventures continue in London but end soon.
The night before last, I went out with Agatha and found this subterranean Spanish club, where most of the guys didn't speak English. It felt like home. And then some men tried to dirty dance with me and made to kiss me, so I jetted it. And then we ran into two Australian men during our stagger home, who tied us up in conversation for a bit. It's my new haircut. I know it. Or at least I tell myself that to make up for how much I paid for it.
In two days, Winn gets here and can save me from these encounters. In fact, I think I'll take him exclusively to gay bars. That way, it's his problem. |
|
|
| Mysterious Happenings |
[Jul. 29th, 2005|11:53 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | confused | ] |
Since I've never had proper non-friend roommates, this experience in London has opened my eyes to the weird shit that can happen in an apartment shared by five girls. Particularly, there are two things me and a couple of the roommates have noticed, and we can only guess the root of it.
One: Food has gone missing. Not something like an apple here, a slice of cheese there. No. Someone ate my entire tub of butter a couple weeks ago - I had only touched it once. And then, between Saturday and Monday, someone ate 3/4 a tub of butter that wasn't theirs. Most of a package of cheese. Bagels. Vegetables. Lots of stuff. My shelf is on the bottom, which seems to be too low for anyone to look so, excepting the butter, I've been lucky.
I'm not angry about all of this, just incredibly amused. How can someone go through 3/4 a tub of butter in two days? How? And why wouldn't you just ask, or replace? I mean, I have taken a few things from the roommates I know better, but I ask.
We've talked about this while we're drunk in the kitchen and wonder if the others can hear us. I want to place a hidden camera in the kitchen because I am so goddamn curious. It would be funny if I was a sleepwalking eater.
Two: Incredible amounts of garbage. This is something that can totally just be the fact that there are five people here, and we've been eating in a lot more over the past few weeks. But I do live with three other people, and we've had a lot of garbage, but nothing compared to this.
Let me list the things I've made or eaten in the kitchen over the past few days, when the garbage overflowed and became bags on the floor.
Chicken Stirfry - only trash is the package the chicken came in and the plastic bag of vegetables.
Tesco/Sainsbury/Pret sandwiches - only trash is the sandwich package.
couple cans of Coke - trash self-evident
Ravioli - have only used half a package and thus, no garbage whatsoever.
Sauce - still some left, so no trash.
Take-away falafel - the box it came in.
Ok, so how much does this contribute to overflowing a HUGE garbage can? The bin is the size of the ones you keep on the side of your house and put out for the trash truck. And it was last emptied TUESDAY.
A piece of evidence - After a weekend where three of the five roommates were away, we walked into the once clean kitchen to see overflowing garbage and a huge stack of unclean dishes. Over TWO days. One of the roommates that had stayed in the dorm complained to us that she walked into the kitchen the night before and had to pick up trash that was strewn all over the floor and countertops and put it into bags. She's had to clean a lot of dishes that aren't her's over the last few weeks - I've seen her do it.
So we have a good idea. But it still seems magical, because there is a lot of food missing and garbage and unclean dishes for one person.
What brought on this rant? I just had to deal with a dorm employee coming in the kitchen to get the garbage early. I shall recreate the scene:
::Employee enters. Mid-twenties, wears blue uniform, disgruntled. Sees garbage. Loudly huffs. Looks over to poor Emily, huffs again. Takes 5 minutes to clear out garbage.::
Disgruntled: Congratulations. You've created the largest pile of rubbish of anyone in this building.
Me: I know...sorry...but thank you so much.
Disgruntled: Humph. [stalks out]
And now I'm hungry, so I'm going to go cook something without creating any garbage. It'll be amazing. OR COMPLETELY FUCKING NORMAL. |
|
|
| Just checking in with my adoring fans... |
[Jul. 23rd, 2005|12:24 pm] |
Hmmm....what have I been up since my last drunken posts? Oh yeah - four more bombs almost went off in London.
I walked out of my dorm on a sunny Thursday, two weeks after the original bombings. I walk half a block to Tottenham Court Road, turn right, and realize I can't make it much further since police have barricaded all the areas around my tube station - Warren Street. Apparently, detonators went off at three tube stations - Warren included - but the bombs were ill-made. But that doesn't mean people didn't run for their fucking lives out of those stations. After I wove my way to class, which was then canceled, it took me a full hour to get home because half of London was blocked off. Police in chemical suits were investigating the underground.
That night we went to pubs within the two-block radius that wasn't blocked off. We met some really nice architects who let us pee in their firm's really nice bathrooms.
And then the next day (Friday) I was planning on going to the Angel tube station because I have to do an article on the area surrounding it. But of course I overslept and heard upon wakening that a guy had been shot many times on the tube, while running from the police. And so some lines were closed again.
I've been walking to my destinations since.
Last night I went to a ballet for Les Liaisons Dangereuses. It was the most awesome ballet I have ever seen, although I haven't really seen any. But the entire two hours was like watching people have sex on stage. If you know the story (think Cruel Intentions), you would know why this would be, but the effect was amazing. There's a rape scene in it that I wouldn't mind taking part in...
I had to drown my sexuality in drink after that, so Agatha and I joined our RAs for some bar action. I'll never forget a particular scene with a mop.\
So today is Camden town for some markets and then back to the Angel station area for some pub/theatre research.
Toodleloo! |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 19th, 2005|01:16 am] |
"The Thames River- where you find beer bottles, bottlecaps and babies in bags." - Agathas rendition of photographer John "Discovery Channel" "Disney Lunchboxes" "Guy who bought us Drinks" Dontknowhislastname
"The Thames River - bottles, babies and baby kittens in bags"
real quote
"No Tracy. Don't worry. Smoking this ____ at this pub won't get us in trouble."
"Yeah, it's only a fine."
now to web site |
|
|
| Amsterdam |
[Jul. 16th, 2005|09:51 pm] |
I'll finish that whole bomb story later. For now, all that matters is im in Amsterdam.
And now for a quote that really has nothing to do with Amsterdam but which was said in an Amsterdam state:
Me: "Ï think we should go shopping and then smoke - kind of like the after-sex cigarette."
Tracy: "I've been thinking about it and I think shopping is a lot like sex. Because one, even if you don't buy anything, you still enjoy it. And two, if you don't buy anything for a long time, you get frustrated."
The first day here was hell. Somehow, Todd convinced us that we should get on a 6 am flight, which meant leaving our dorm at 3:30 and hence no sleep. And then, Todd and Chris went off to find a friend and Tracy and I spent a good three hours looking for somewhere to stay. And then we collapsed for an hour in a sort-of expensive hotel. And then we dragged ourselves to meet Todd and Chris. But they didn't even show up.
And then today we had to find a hostel.
But now we're in a hostel and we spent time in the park, where a homeless guy ambushed us into a conversation that we weren't too keen on. And then this bride who was taking wedding pictures came up behind me while I was smoking and lifted my underwear because my ass crack was showing. She said something in Dutch, laughed and walked away with her pretty white parasol. Dude.
And then we ran into todd and chris, plus some friends, and went to the Van Gogh museum. And I realized museums bore me and I don't know why I even try to culture myself.
Now we're off to the bars. I can tell Tracy's tired, but too bad. |
|
|
| Shall we, then? |
[Jul. 9th, 2005|07:10 pm] |
Most Weirdest Day Ever (or in recent memory)
11:15 a.m.: My roommate, Agatha, walks into my room and wakes me up. I had stayed up until 7 a.m. doing hw and bathing in the newfound freedom of dorm internet.
"I'm sorry to wake you up, but you HAVE to come downstairs!"
11:20 am: I stumble downstairs wearing last nights dirty clothes. Quickly made notices are posted everywhere: "Please, unless you have somewhere very important to go, do not leave. Due to recent circumstances, it is safer to stay indoors."
No mention of why we should stay in - just vague messages.
In the lounge, where the only TV in the dorm resides, dozens of students are glued to the screen. The story keeps changing. Six bombs. Seven bombs. Three buses. One bus. And apparently, casualties means victims, not dead people. I had always thought the latter.
11:40 am: We ignore the warnings and go out into the street. We have discovered that the bombs went off at two tube stations a couple blocks from us and that the bus exploded near our school. But everything seems normal out on the streets. We go to a pret a manger and dozens of people are in line for coffee and sandwiches. If I hadn't seen the news, I don't know if I would have realized what happened.
Noon: Back at the dorm, our program director, Margaret, tells us we can't leave the building. Half the students are at class - about a 15 minutes walk away. But they're not allowed to leave. And no one knows who's missing. Parents are calling in droves and Margaret is going mad with stress. I try to call my parents, but my cell phone won't work because the mobile network has been shut down to prevent terrorists from communicating. I use the office phone, but my parents don't pick up. I guess they don't care about me.
Noon to 1:30 pm: I switch between sitting upstairs and surfing the net. Margaret comes in and says our roommate Tracy is missing. She was supposed to be in class.
Wait, Tracy's just made dinner. To be continued...
I am continuing this entry many days later...so where was I?
Oh yes:
1:31 p.m.: Tracy walks in to the kitchen, where Margaret is quietly freaking out. She had stopped to get a sandwich.
1:45 p.m.: With only a couple hours of sleep, I am completely exhausted. I literally fall onto my bed and PTFO.
4:30 p.m.: A loud, piercing alarm makes me jump out of bed. What the fuck happened? We quickly evacuate the dorm. When we're outside and across the street, fire trucks speed toward the building. Later, we realize that someone set off the smoke alarm by mistake. Probably by chain-smoking away the stress in their kitchen. Five of us decide to walk down the street and get some Indian food, as Indian restaurants are the only ones open.
4:45 - 6 p.m. We have an awful dinner. The food is good, but the waiters hate us. Being woken by the alarm has triggered some sort of adrenalin in me, and I only order an appetizer and a pint of beer. The waiters don't like that; we all need to have a full meal. Even though there's plenty of extra seats in their restaurant. And the people ordering a meal are only accompanying it with nan. What about rice? They've caught us in a bad mood, and we simply refuse to do as they ask. Besides, my beer and samosas cost the same as a full meal.
We're sitting in a smoking section and Agatha pulls out a cigarette and begins to smoke. As the waiter lays out our drinks, a woman at the next table leans over to him and says: "Could you tell her to put that out?! I can't enjoy my food with all that smoke." We readily move across the restaurant, but couldn't she have just asked us? Why does she need to talk to the waiter as if we don't exist and wouldn't oblige? Why are people so mean and untrusting?
9 p.m. - 1 a.m.: A group of us decides to go to the pubs. All are packed and its interesting to talk to Londoners about the day's events. I talk to a bunch of British Isrealis outside a Subway, but our conversation quickly turns to happy slapping. We then spend some time wandering around Camden town. There is one line of people moving in exodus form to different clubs.
1 a.m.: Return to the dorm to find 3 people experiences the funghi. Yes, that's right, bombs in the morning, mushrooms at night. They're huddled in a dark room on the corner of the bed. I retreat to my apartment and sit with friends in the kitchen, listening to music and smoking.
Tada! |
|
|
| Picturebook |
[Jul. 8th, 2005|07:15 pm] |
I'll get to writing about the terrorist experience later. For now, I think I'll just post a bunch of pictures.
Don't worry, they're all happy.
First - Live 8.
Next - The one Drink at the Pub that turned into 40 drinks at the Clubs
Let's end with the Gay Pride Parade:
Ok, more interesting stuff to come. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
yehle's journal