9th
Let’s go back house
We found it confusing to refer to our hostel as ‘home’. I decided to write about last night rather than the night before that.
My grasp limited and my smile broad, I wiped an excess of salt from my slacks and we trodded onwards to piccadilly circus. The rowdy germans singing their anthem, cigarettes flaring as a gust of wind blew that reeked of budweiser and women’s perfume. When you leave a club you can’t simply abandon the mood of excitement, you leave singing ecstatically, hopping around like a fucking rabbit on cocaine. Your arm on the shoulder of a friend who you’ve just met the other day, but no one gives a shit when your sleeves are soaked with tequila and your voices yell the words to the Star Spangled Banner. The only ones not singing are the Americans, who laugh and lag behind. We joined a group of South Africans who sang Nirvana under the fountain statue of Eros, in the centre of the circus. The guitar is too quiet compared to the dozen or so people yelling, Here we are now, entertainers, ra rara ra, ra ra rara… A fat guy joins in and starts dancing, I laugh harder than I should.
Back at house we shotgun some beers and puff a little before getting yelled at by the angry brown man at reception for a second time. We conclude that he’s resolving some emotional issues and may be compensating for a small penis. I honestly don’t remember much of anything after 2 AM, except for that I went to bed at 3:30, Clarance went bed an hour later after chilling with the germans.
Clarance: What do you think strippers do in the daytime?
Gal: Read books.
Clarance: Go to the library?
Gal: Casually peruse string theory.
Clarance: Try and solve Cold Fusion.
I’m sure you agree that it’s excessive for me to list everything we did every day, as if you care.
