Monday, July 23, 2007

We are on the same high, you and I.

Fair readers,

How are YOU? I never ask, which is very cruel of me as if it were not for all of you other fleshy beings, existence would not matter. I would not matter. The realities which we think are real would cease to be, rather instead creating new ones where I do not want to imagine or go into for that matter.

I have made friends with a British native despite the fact I feel a bit scholarly in comparison. Ah well, he is not an American, so I suppose that is great progress. He still would like to bang me (plainly obvious within a drunk sort of capacity... or whenever) which is just positively annoying. I reckon I can avoid minor details to enjoy the accent and/or unusual London-y scenery for less than five days.

I partook in a certain activity I for one thought I would a) never do and b) certainly not do in the seedier areas of London town. Bar hopping has to be one of the most expensive, mind-altering (in a substance kind of way), humanizing experiences one can be included in. Followed, perhaps, closely by real clubbing (none of this fake, kiddy, all ages business).
Night one consisted of sitting on the sidelines (oh! shock, horrors! Alexis is a wallflower), taking in life as it passed me by. Some people just should not be allowed to leave their humble abodes in certain attires. Half-naked (or basically naked) is definantly a part of that, especially when it is rather clear you, in fact, do not have the proper body for such a skimpy wardrobe. For the most part, ridiculous looking emo/screamo kids and oh!-i'm-so-goth kids look exactly the same anywhere in the world: ...just bad. I hate to inform you but your sister would really like her black skinny jeans back (and possibly her hair straightener) and starch white really should not be one's facial coloring unless in some kind of kabuki performance (and I know for a fact there was none of that going on before you wandered into a Camden Town club/bar). I watched on, unsure of who was more pathetic. Was it me because I sat on a bar stool, peering on, sipping on some overpriced alcoholic beverage, silently mocking these people and their really awful dancing skills? Or was it them due to their aforementioned thread choices and movements? Still then, they are at least having "fun", where as I was probably not. I was experiencing, though, which says something, right? Oh, before I forget, what the hell is hardcore dancing? I mean, seriously, you males look like you are having some brilliant seizure, a choreographed one to boot. I seem to be lacking intelligence on the aesthetic appeal of this particular type of dance. After spending vastly too long having a sociological debate over counter culture, human interaction, and society as a whole within my silly mind, I decided the only sane way to deal with this mess presented before me was to get boozing. A drunk perception may have made much more sense, if not a breeding ground for clarity. I went about obtaining such a perception, much to my wallet's ultimate dismay. This was about the time it re-dawned on me that men as a whole are a despicable breed. I would be quite dead if I took all the drink offers thrown in my direction. Bitch, please, get over your bad goth self (also, not one but two Russians tried repeated to buy me drinks. Nothing could be less appealing than a drunk Russian male. good god, ew). Upon my realization that I was failing miserably at the game of free drinks! (and the use of my womanly wiles, [standing there seemed to be working just as well]), I decided to start taking up the drink offers (although, avoiding any Russians at all costs). Here in enters my new, slightly dense, beer saturated, "i-just-rolled-out-of-bed-in-these-clothes", male British friend. The rest of my eve was spent in Trafalgar Square at 4 in the morning. It is apparently a must to sit on one of the four gigantic bronze lions surrounding a very tall statue of Lord Nelson... but only drunk. And only in the middle of the night. It is a British London thing, so it seems. This plan failed miserably as first, neither of us were really drunk and second, the lions were all taken by people passing around bottles of liquor and smoking pot. Instead, I acquired a rather picturesque hour where we sat in front of Mr. Nelson which happened to be in direct line with Big Ben in the near distance. Honestly, you could not get more stereotypical. According to my new friend, Pete Dohertey is the new Bob Dylan. Or something.

Oh, and that is about as phallic (Lord Nelson statue, ladies and gents) as it gets, thank you.

Night two was overall a success in regards to really bar hopping. Four places! That is not one, but four hops! Joe said this was pathetic; a rabbit could do much better. I think he was just being bitter as he was most certainly turning into a pumpkin and I kept him out four hours after he had turned into such an object. I rather got used to wiggling my way through mounds of people in front of a bar and screaming a
drink name. What's up, seasoned pro, huh? We ended up at an alt rock club which was god awful unless you were belligerently drunk or really fucking sleepy. We were both the best of each worlds. Joe's amusement of humanity in this place did not seem to cease until about 2:30, which by this point I had enough whiskey to be a dancin' fool along with a good 150 other young adults, if you will. That is the only way one can justify what they are doing. It is pathetic but oddly fun and one realizes, I suppose, they are a part of some greater humanity and are ultimately looking for the same thing: an activity, anything, to make life have some sense of purpose (other than just being alive which really does harbor a decent amount of effort sometimes) and the escapism from inherent loneliness that creeps up on all of us (after all, we are goin' out solo here). And, dammit, if that means drinking a hell of a lot of alcohol, "dancing" (from a bystanders perspective, this could be seen as a mating call at times, hence the cute air quotes), and walking into a bathroom where the ladies are doing lines of coke in a stall that won't lock (which is really fucking frustrating when one has to piss and they are too tipsy to really deal with such annoying details like a mechanical seal, so in some warped sense it kind of works out), then so be it.

The only burning question I still posses is: why is it whenever I tell some lowly male what I am studying here (architecture and WWI), since they always ask, they are somehow terribly impressed? Do I look dense to you? I mean, yes, maybe YOU are, certainly, but I am definantly not.

It is apparently big of me to spend my weekends not copying the exact same sequence of activities as I just described above. When asked what the hell I have been doing for seven weeks on Friday nights, I responded honestly with, "I have been reading philosophy and the biography of Howard Hughes, occasionally partaking in late night free writes." I was told I can take a night off from studying once and a while, you know. Hardly educational.

I leave London for the exploration of western Europe on Friday. Terribly sad, but I must admit I do so miss silly Americana. It is just home, you know? I would assume it is like craving your mother's home cookin', although, my mother does not do that sort of thing unless it involves some defenseless chicken.

Mad appreciation for the British booze or a plastered smile, you chose.

I am fucking hip & shit.

Lunching @the Ivy. Such a posh bitch, I am. Whatevez, I look fab.

Afternoon tea, oh gee!

Land of fucking cranes.

It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way, not his way,

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