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| Things I Love/Hate About Montpellier, Volume I |
[Mar. 2nd, 2008|04:26 pm] |
One of the things I dislike most about living in Montpellier has nothing to do with the city or country itself: it's the fact that I live alone, or more accurately, the fact that I live with someone I never care to see or speak to. There are a few advantages, but mainly a long list of disadvantages to this arrangement. When I was in Edinburgh last week, I was reminded of another drawback of which I had hitherto seldom thought.
I am not a morning person, and I hate waking up. Often, getting out of bed is one of the more torturous things I have to experience on a daily basis. Thus, I often take days off as opportunities to sleep well into the afternoon. Even when the sun or my body clock wake me and I feel fully rested, I'll often elect to stay in bed and carry on sleeping until 2:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon just because I know I have nothing to do. But while I was in Edinburgh, I experienced a phenomenon about which I had all but forgotten: the desire to get up. When you're living with people whom you know and like, and when those people aren't morning zombies like you are, oftentimes, you'll hear them up and about before you'd ever considering dragging yourself out of bed, and having awoken to the sounds of gentle bustling, you might even be curious enough about the activities to want to get out of bed yourself. The smell of cooking breakfast, the muffled sounds of Jeremy Kyle playing in the living room, your curiosity about what happened last night and why your left ankle hurts when you bend it... all of these are things which, at one time or another, have trumped that strong inclination I have to while away the day in bed. And none of these are things which I will ever experience in France. On the other hand, however, there is an advantage to this: drifting between sleeping and waking for hours on end does produce vivid memories of dreams, which I always find entertaining. So, if this Sunday afternoon you're feeling bored enough to brave though accounts of someone else's dreams, ( here they are: ) |
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| The Long-Haul |
[Feb. 27th, 2008|03:49 pm] |
I'm going back to France tomorrow. Once in a while, I slip and say that I'm going 'home' which implies good things I guess, but immediately, it always sounds wrong to me. My mushy little single bed (into which I stopped sinking only after I unpacked and shoved my too-big suitcases underneath, creating accidental support in my search for storage space) in my lonely little tower room will never quite be any genuine kind of 'home' to me. I'll be glad once I'm there (I can't really justify hiding out here for any longer), but the prospect of nearly ten more hours of travel time does not excite me, especially since I always find leaving Edinburgh impossibly hard. Is it even physically possible for a week to pass this quickly? Didn't I just arrive last night?
Tonight should be good (pub quiz in the gay bar!), and I shall fill in the events of the week (not that there were many events to speak of) once I recover from the combined effects of early morning travel and whatever state I drink myself into ce soir. (Oh, hungover plane journeys, will I never learn from you?) I think that beginning tomorrow, I shall be in France for the long haul. Since I arrived in September, I have never spent an entire calendar month there, but unforeseeable events aside, I don't think I'll have much cause to leave France in the next three. I'm ready for that though; these next three months will be the crisis point - a kind of do or die style approach to my French education - in regard to my French language skills; most of what I don't learn in the coming months, I probably never will. I no longer expect to attain absolute fluency, but I'm ready to immerse myself both literally and figuratively in the Franceness, and do the best I can; there will be no more coming up to breathe; next time I taste Anglo air, I will no longer be an ERASMUS. That's a bit of a daunting prospect, so I'm glad that I was allowed the indulgence of this week. |
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| Undone |
[Feb. 22nd, 2008|10:47 am] |
I'm back in Ed now, and even though things are a bit weird, it's excellent in most imaginable ways. I made a return to Faith last night. They had a "popcorn party", which is exactly as ridiculous as it sounds; a guy stood on the club's balcony with a great big tube of a cannon and shot "£600 worth of popcorn" onto the dance floor. Then, everyone was drunk (us on £10 champagne and £1 sambuca, first year style) and dancing with popcorn in their hair and under their shoes and in their bras.
I'm still not sure what I'm doing here, but fuck I don't want to be anywhere else. I'm afraid that this return will damage me, that it will undo all of the positive France love I've been able to muster recently. I always knew I loved Edinburgh a great deal, but I think I had almost forgotten quite how much I love it until I got back here last night. It's so windy the shutters rattle, and so freezing my be-flip-flopped feet turn red, but I kind of can't stop smiling, and I wonder how, when I have to leave in six days, I'm going to be able to think of anything else. |
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| February of Fun France "Facts": Fin |
[Feb. 19th, 2008|09:39 pm] |
So, I've obviously fizzled on the "facts" of February front...but just because I've had little to say doesn't mean things haven't been good. These past few weeks, France has been better than it's ever been, and I'm enjoying being here immensely, every day. That said, I'm going...back to Ed for a week because...I don't really know why...but I'm excited about it nonetheless. Importantly, however, while I may be excited to go to Edinburgh, for perhaps the first time ever, I am not desperate to go. So, I'm travelling to Edinburgh on Thursday (via Nimes and Nottingham and it is going to take FOREVER because I choose to live in only the most inconveniently located European cities), and I'm going to shiver for a week, and then I'm going to come back to Montpellier (via London and Marseille which will also take approximately forever) the next Thursday at which point I hope it's very sunny and warm here. And it will all be excellent. And I will write about it, really. I enjoyed the "facts" of February while they lasted, and the France does not stop here; it is, however, going on hiatus for the rest of Feb. |
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| Home for Thanksgiving for the Very First Time |
[Nov. 26th, 2007|02:34 am] |
I've been back in Edinburgh since Thursday, and while things have certainly changed, it kind of also feels like I never left. I could very easily believe that the last three months have been a long, elaborate, hazy dream conducted in my incompetent half-French, and that I've been in Edinburgh the whole time, looking out the same windows, writing the same essays, stumbling along the same cobblestones, frequenting the same bars, saying silly things to boys and drinking copious amounts of gin, just as I used to. Importantly, however, France has not been a fantasy, and for the past three months, I have been haunting different lanes, frequenting different bars, drinking copious amounts of rosé wine with different friends, and, well...not writing any essays at all, and I am (finally) glad of it.
When I left here last time, I cried for weeks, a fact whose verity is all the more striking when one knows that tears are never something to which I resort because I don't normally allow myself to be that upset(unless of course, my ipod breaks, but my materialism and constant need to fill my ears with music in order to maintain sanity is another matter altogether). And when I left last time, I very much regretted having to go, having applied for a double major with French instead of a single one in English Lit; I considered my departure an exile: punishment for crimes committed against my muse, the English language when, in my youth, I was so foolish as to take on French as a paramour. But if this is indeed an exile, it is a necessary one; I very much love Edinburgh and anticipate my more permanent return, but I know that if I had stayed, I would have languished. My transition from school to Edinburgh was far too easy, and far too pleasant, and I have been too complacent in my life here; none of these things are true of France, and now that I am twenty years old (and the producer of a single gray hair!), I feel it's important that I face a little bit of challenge. And while for the past three months, I have been a cowardly blogger, refusing to chronicle my comparative misery (and oh! how miserable I was sipping coffee and/or wine under palm trees in the sunny south of France, poor me! Quelle cauchemar!), I finally feel I am at enough of a distance from my "despair" to end my reign of silence. It took about a month and a half, but I finally learned to stop sulking, and just enjoy the change and the experience for what it is, rather than lament the fact that it has thrown me asunder from my dear, darling Edinburgh. But Edinburgh is my geographical equivalent of a first love; there were bound to be some tears on the occasion of the break-up, even if it was for the best, and only needs last two semesters.
So here I find myself at the end of November, finally happy in France, and for the first time in my life, having travelled "home" for Thanksgiving. And while (to continue the use of my lame metaphor) I am now delighting in my newfound French freedom, it's extremely nice to return to the arms of my ex, even if he's changed too, and I know it can only last a weekend.
( And in more literal terms... ) |
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| Roundup |
[Sep. 3rd, 2007|12:50 am] |
Okay. I've had a nice, thematic, all-encompassing post in the works for over a week now, and I just haven't managed to write it to the end. If I had finished it, it would have been clear that I just haven't had the time, as I have been too busy drinking gin, selling wax jackets, seeing random festival shows, trying to find a French flat, shouting at imperious French women on the phone, and running up and down the Mound trying my hardest not to cry. But, therein lies the Catch-22, eh? August was fucking awesome, and I don't now have time to do it justice because even though work and the festival are over, I am now incredibly busy packing my life back up into as few suitcases as possible, taking a mini road trip up to the very top of Scotland, turning twenty, and on Thursday, moving to France. I hope to speak about all of this at length (especially the part in which I turn twenty. I am so not ready not to be a teenager and that teenager in me NEEDS to blog about it) but I don't anticipate an end to the chaos any time soon. I suppose for now, at least, it must suffice for me to say that I'm loving every minute of it and I'll get back to the details as soon as possible. |
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| Things Which Were Awesome About the Kanye West Show Tonight: A List |
[Aug. 17th, 2007|12:15 am] |
1. He played in a venue that is smaller than a high school auditorium.
2. He sang a song (which I had never expected he would bother to sing) which rivals Playground Love as my official favorite.
3. Kanye, (several thousand other people,) and I hummed The Verve's Bittersweet Symphony together; it was very special.
4. Kanye also performed random medleys of songs, his own and others'. I found that kind of hilarious.
5. I managed to smuggle my camera in through the use of my secret spy skills.
Things Which Were Not Awesome About the Kanye West Show Tonight:
1. About thirty seconds into the show, my camera imploded, so in spite of my sneaky success, I have no photographic (or video) evidence of these dazzling events.
2. The McDonald's inside the British Wal-Mart next to the venue closed just as we got there, hungry.
3. Shivering outside in this cold Scottish August, waiting for a taxi because we had no idea how to get home. |
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| The Very Picture of Festival |
[Aug. 14th, 2007|11:32 pm] |
Just past 7:00 tonight, as I was leaving work, there was a guy with a guitar standing in the alleyway behind the shop under a huge picnic table umbrella branded with Magners logos, singing Outkast's Hey Ya!, as it rained and rained away. My manager said to me, "THAT, Mel, is the very picture of the Edinburgh Festival." Then, I set off running across the city in my work uniform through the rain so as to make it on time to a free production of Doctor Faustus at the Edinburgh College of Art. I stopped off in the Frankenstein's bathroom for a quick wardrobe change, and it made me feel a little bit like a superhero.
After the play, which was good, mostly, Steph, Charlie, the Hitchhiker*, and I went to an Irish pub in the Grassmarket where we drank beer without having had dinner. While sitting in the bar, a man with false teeth approached us with a very persuasive "apparently, I'm supposed to come here and offer you tickets to my show. It's not very good." With a pitch like that, we of course, said yes, but first, we needed some dinner, and here is my Picture of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival: powerwalking up the Grassmarket in the dark, in the rain, eating soggy pizza out of a box on our way to see an act which was inspired by and performed entirely with the aid of toilet roll. The D Brothers were mime-magicians whose act included all of the following at one point or another: me sitting in the audience wearing toilet paper around my shoulders like a sash, a Magritte style bowler on a hat stand draped in toilet roll, Charlotte on the stage wearing a toilet paper hat as they pumped cider out of her ear, and both magicians wearing outfits that turned them into puppets (one of which was a rabbit that parodied the very nature of magic acts!) which danced to crazy drum beats. I fucking love the Fringe.
*Last Thursday, Steph's brother was waiting for a bus into the city when he found a hitchhiker from London looking lost after having tumbled out of a Range Rover; on Thursday, we all had a delightfully drunken night out, and since Sunday this Hitchhiker has been living on our couch, working in a juice bar, making us dinner, and indulging me in semi-literary pursuits. He is now sitting across the room making Papier Maché statuettes to sell to tourists. |
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| When Bagpipes and Tourists and Bongo Drummers and Shrieks and Festivity Fill That Which Was Silence |
[Aug. 4th, 2007|02:43 pm] |
It occurred to me the other day, as I was pushing past tourists on my way to work, that it is now August, and I haven't posted a single thing since the 30th of June. It's not that I haven't meant to - I have vestiges of barely-started entries strewn all over my macbook - or that I haven't had the time, but July has been such a strange month. July has been, at once, languid and fleeting.
I've been working lots, allocating the majority of my days to exercises in futility - tagging jackets only to de-tag them, zipping them up only to unzip them again, all to make money which seems to flow out of my account nearly as quickly as it enters it. If a bit demoralizing and existentially precarious, my job, however, isn't all bad, and in actuality, I have nothing to complain of. Frequent twenty minute breaks from it facilitate lots of time drinking Snapples or coffees in the picturesque Princes' Street Gardens where, in July, I was regularly accosted by old people, to whom I responded because working has conditioned me to be smiley and helpful whenever possible. Thus, I have discussed my limited knowledge of the imperious Edinburgh castle with an old German woman, and I was even conned into allowing one rather creepy old gentleman an awkward hug after a discussion of the weather. Then there was my festival experience at T in the Park (on which I have had half of an entry written for weeks, and which I am determined to finish, however untimely) and random nights in bars with ANYONE of my acquaintance still left in the city of Edinburgh because they are so few we must band together. There has been little sun, but lots of rain, and BAM! here we are in August, so soon, and now the city is full of noise and life and tourists and insanity (and COUNTRYMEN).
I have just been reading these ten-year-old diaries by Mavis Gallant on the emptiness of Paris in August, and it occurs to me that exactly the opposite happens here. I don't think that there is a single empty street in the whole of Edinburgh; indeed, most of the them are so overcrowded that it is impossible to walk at a normal pace. And, of course, everything else is overcrowded too, and in some respects I love the crazy energy that this entails, but in others, I find it hard not to punch the dawdling camera-wielders as the take away any hope I once had of punctuality in regards to turning up to work. Everything has been re-purposed as well - the entirety of Edinburgh Uni is now, in fact, a bar, or at least a venue for cirque and cabaret, a reality which I find immensely amusing and exciting. This August, however, is also my last month as a teenager, and with the full-blown insanity, frivolity, and presence of drag cabaret, I cannot think of a more fitting place than Edinburgh festival to be. |
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| Summer of... |
[Jun. 30th, 2007|05:51 pm] |
Up until fifteen minutes ago, the most exciting thing that happened in my day was frantically trying to remember what I learned in third grade math so that I could calculate percentages in order to make sale tags at work. Then, fifteen minutes ago I was on my way home, obliviously jaywalking down the street, listening to my ipod when SPLAT! Ow. What's that thing on my leg? Oh, right I just got hit by a car. Or maybe, in actuality, I walked into the car. I'm not entirely certain because if I had been aware enough to know that there was a moving car in my path, I probably wouldn't have collided with it. The woman inside the car just looked warily out her window at me as if to say, "What the fuck? Are you you high? Tell me you aren't going to make this into an ordeal - I have to get home by six; it's casserole night," so I just kind of waved her along. Then, this taxi driver wanted to call an ambulance, but aside from some pain in my leg, I was fine, so I just kept walking. I had intended for this to be my Summer of Britishness or my Summer of Iniquity, but between having drunkenly jumped/fallen off of a four foot high concrete wall in Barcelona, fallen face first over a bucket in Tossa de Mar, and my latest run-in with a moving vehicle, I think that whether I will it or not, 2007 might be my Summer of Embarrassing Injury. |
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| Musical Magic |
[Jun. 23rd, 2007|10:31 pm] |
At any given moment, I always have a song whose genius I find so captivating that I cannot get enough of it, a song that I find so wonderful that I want to explode and dance and sing and scream all at once because I physically can't cope with the beauty of it. I listen to it every day, and when it ends, I have to listen to it again at least once more, because I can't bear to listen to anything else in comparison to it. I've been obsessed with the same song for at least four months now, so obsessed that I know it takes two and a bit plays to get from walking down the stairs in my building to Uni, thus I know that if I've not passed Chambers Street by the time it ends its first play, I'm running late. That song is called Young Folks by Peter, Bjorn & John, and I bought it randomly after reading about it one day on a fashion blog.
My captivation, I think, has been waning a bit because for the past three days, I've been yearning to hear a different song. Until about five minutes ago, I didn't know what that song was called or who sang it; I had heard it on my ipod Thursday afternoon while wandering around, killing time before an interview, but I had no idea what it was; I just couldn't recall ever hearing it before. Well, after a quick search through the playlist of songs to upload to my shuffle, I discovered that it was Amsterdam, another Peter, Bjorn & John song that I randomly had on my computer, but of which I had been unaware. So, of course, I had to purchase the rest of the album at once. And, I'm not sure why (a testament, maybe to lack of other interest in my life) but it felt a little bit like magic. |
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| Adventures with my Backpack: the Reprise |
[Jun. 1st, 2007|06:24 am] |
6:00am and I'm awake? And sober? Must mean I'm catching a plane! I'm off in about five minutes for the reprise of adventures with my backpack. France, Spain, I don't know where else. As before, it shall be most excellent, and I will update as possible. If not, see you on the other side of two weeks...
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| F R E E D O M ! |
[May. 18th, 2007|04:09 pm] |
So, second year is now officially over, which means that I am half done Uni. I would probably have quite a bit to say about the significance of this if I weren't slightly tipsy from Pimm's pitchers, espresso martinis, and a church book sale. And yes, I do mean to imply that the discovery of 50p paperbacks made me a little bit drunk. |
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| Longest Week EVAR. |
[May. 17th, 2007|10:38 pm] |
This week has been impossibly long; it has been possibly the LONGEST week I've had to endure since coming to Edinburgh; this last week leading up to my last exam has actually been TORTURE. I know that, basically, I'm just being a bit of a whiny wretch, but I feel like I've been living in the library for the past month and a half (and for the most part, I have been); I have literally never done so much studying in my life (which, albeit, still isn't THAT much), and this last week it has just been bordering on too tedious to handle. Every night this week I have had to make a conscious effort not to scream, throw my English translation of Madame Bovary across the room, give in, and go out.
On Tuesday, the flat mates and I tried to distract ourselves from the temptations of going out with a bottle of wine and some cheesy TV. We thought that watching something about someone infinitely more pathetic than us might make us feel better, but honestly, it just made us want to throw up. I've always been rather against television censorship, feeling that, especially in America, the things that aren't allowed to be shown verge on ridiculous. I mean, those people whose delicate sensibilities can't handle a bit of language or nudity, should probably put down the pickets and just stick to watching episodes of Murder She Wrote on the Pax channel, right? Well, I still feel that way, and I still feel that, especially where documentaries and news stories are concerned, any inclinations toward censorship should be trumped by an effort to portray things in as realistic and objective a light as possible. This show, however, certainly made me rethink those views at the very least. The three of us were actually just sitting there, appalled, wondering how in hell any of it was allowed on TV. The premise of the show was that this asexual loser of a 26-year-old was to go to a school in Amsterdam to learn how to have sex. It may sound quite harsh to automatically label him a loser based upon only that criteria, but this man's sole source of income was delivering newspapers; he lived in his dad's basement; his grandmother had to take him shopping for clothes. Call me judgmental, but this man had absolutely NOTHING going for him (no wonder he wasn't getting any). We were drawn to the show by the hilarity of the premise (and often, it WAS hilarious), but I don't think any of us were prepared for how mind-numbingly PAINFUL it would be to watch. I saw this man awkwardly grope the naked breasts of an ancient, motherly Dutch woman until he was compelled to stop because it was "too sexual". It was like the real-life version of that old SNL sketch in which Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch(?) are professors / "lovahs" in a hot tub. At the end of the documentary, we literally SAW this man losing his virginity to a dutch prostitute, which, to be honest, just felt to personal a thing to be witnessing, and you know, they were ugly and it was kind of gross; much like a bad accident however, it was impossible to look away. While part of me is awed and glad this sort of thing is allowed on television, part of me wishes she hadn't been subject to it.
By Wednesday night, I was going MAD. I was missing a Pirate Party at the club down the street from us, and I was missing Snow Patrol's semi-secret DJ set at one of my favourite clubs. And, as I believe I've made clear in the past, I HATE missing things that are GOING ON. Furthermore, as I expressed above, I am generally bored, fed up, and would be very happy never to read anything ever again (or at least for the duration of the week).
Tonight, however, I feel lighter, like I'm on the cusp of sweet freedom. It feels good to know that there will be no more long days in the library, no more guilt about not having read enough; my last exams ends at 11:30am tomorrow!
I may have done a lot of whining about the whole thing, but at least I made it through this exam season without leaving in the middle of my exam to have gay sex with my best friend Hollyoaks style. Well, maybe I speak too soon. I still do have one exam to go... |
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| Dressed to Kill / I am RUBBISH! |
[May. 13th, 2007|12:43 pm] |
When I speak of how weird I was in high school, when I cringe about the crazy things I used to do, or even when I recall high school events with fondness, I usually end up speaking about the strange things I used to do in the name of "fashion". I'll readily admit that there was a time in which I used to carry a roll of duct tape around in my vintage Fendi bag in case of "emergencies". There was a rather dark year during which an outfit was not an outfit unless it included both elements of fishnet and duct tape; during that era, I used to alter a lot of my clothes, "make" accessories, and one time, I even safety pinned a large bolt to the front of my shirt, drawing attention to my tits which, due to their size, usually garner enough attention for themselves. I love to play the self-deprecation card and laugh as I tell people about the time I rolled duct tape up my legs in a criss-cross pattern, creating my infamous duct tape "fishnets". Am I a complete idiot with no common sense? Didn't I realize it was going to hurt to rip them off, especially toward the tops of my legs and on the backs of my knees where the skin is a bit more delicate? No, I'm not a complete idiot, and of course I knew it was going to hurt; I knew before I donned those "stockings" that it was going to hurt like a motherfucker to rip them off; I knew that bending my knees would probably be painful and problematic, but I was proud of the pain I was willing to bear for what I perceived to be fashion and an expression of my own individuality. In many ways, I'm still somewhat (unreasonably) proud. I'm definitely not proud of all the nights I spent sitting alone in my bedroom moping, nor of the rather vile, brooding, intolerant person I sometimes was (and still am, maybe), but there's something about my zaniness, my sheer insanity, my stubborn determination to be "different" in some way (ANY way) that I still admire. Sure, these tendencies are cringeworthy; sure, I'm glad that my fashion icons are no longer fictional drag queens, but that rebellious part of me of which these proclivities were mere manifestations, that part of me still lives (albeit a bit more subdued). As such, I still have a sentimental soft spot for the idea of making clothes out of duct tape or trash bags or trash in general. Recently, I had the opportunity to relive the glory of my duct tape days, and I jumped (maybe a little too) emphatically at that chance.
For her birthday, a friend called Ruth had an "R"-themed party, at which all guests were expected to dress as something beginning with the letter "R". Obviously, my costume of choice was RUBBISH! because dressing as rubbish can reasonably involve wearing a trash bag as a dress (something which has been a personal aspiration of mine since I was about eleven and my cousin Laura wore a trash bag as a skirt on Halloween). Since I was going to wear a trash bag as a dress, I obviously had to wear something underneath to puff it out a bit. What is the fabric of choice used to make clothes puffy? TULLE! Essentially, what is tulle? Netting. What is netting, really? Fishnet on a bolt. How will I hold it all together? How will I accessorize? DUCT TAPE!, of course; duct tape can do ANYTHING, and it serves all functions. The thought of crafting this outfit filled me with an ineffable (and ridiculous) sense of glee. Add to that the fact that I would get to wear this duct tape trash bag confection out drinking to a club with many of my favourite Britons, and in the terms of my own personal symbolism, we have The Best of All Possible Worlds; this outfit would epitomize all my favourite, most ambitious moments of high school, and it was to be worn in a context that, to me, symbolizes how far I've come since then. Still, more exciting, this event was to take place in Faith of all places, adding even more nuance to the significance of this momentous night.
( My Adventures as a Duct Tape Prom Queen ) |
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| Rockin' the Suburbs. |
[May. 12th, 2007|09:55 pm] |
I've been meaning to write this post for about a week, but as has been discussed previously, I am very bad at blogging things in a timely fashion; in fact I'm not particularly gifted at doing anything in a timely fashion. I have, however, been spending an inordinate amount of time in the library reading French novels I should have read months ago, so I shall exploit that as my excuse and ask you all to indulge me in my tardiness as I return to the heady days of the weeks just past:
I think that, in my world, at least, it is officially summer. Sure, I have two [now one] weeks of exams and revision left, and today, at least it's overcast and chilly [still true], but it FEELS like summer. I may have a million things I should be doing, and lots more things I should be learning, but everything just feels so light and spontaneous that I find it difficult to care. This is going to be my first British summer. As such, I'm sure I'm over-romanticizing everything - indeed, Charlotte wonders why I've elected to stay in rainy, muggy Edinburgh when I could be in sunny America - but, I have this irrational belief that the sun's magical rays will candy-coat each summer day in red and white stripes; everyone will be attired in a Barbour jacket to combat the crisp breeze that rolls across the lush green grass as he sips a refreshing glass of Pimm's, idly watching the pages of his book rustle in the wind, or maybe watching some of his friends playing croquet. There will probably also be some lighthearted polo playing and fox hunting (the fact that fox hunting is now illegal is obviously irrelevant). This may be a rather Catherine Morland-esque attitude for me to adopt, but I think that life as a character in a Jane Austen novel would only augment my ridiculous fantasies.
( Beginnings of the British Summer ) |
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| How NOT to Pull |
[May. 12th, 2007|03:16 am] |
(1) Do not wear a Jesus cross necklace.
(2) Do not walk up to a girl in a club and mock the attractive guys with whom she is obviously dancing.
(3) Once rejected, do not chat up her friends.
(4) Once rejected by her friend, do not tell said friend to "look in the mirror" insinuating that, in spite of the fact that you cannot pull, you are more attractive.
(5) Do not show said friend (by whom you have been rejected) your mobile phone wallpaper, which happens to be of your newborn child.
(6) Do not be shocked when said friend denounces you as a motherfucking pikey and lectures you on the virtues of condoms, in spite of the fact that she is wearing a trash bag as a dress. |
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