Wednesday, January 19, 2005
In exactly one month, I will be arriving in London to start a week of fighting, fucking, and setting shit on fire.
Well, maybe I won't be doing any of those things, but it will be a week of drinking a ton and spending more money than I could ever possibly afford (thank you, weak US dollar).
I love London. I've written before about this, but I'll do so again because it's very hard to write something almost every day for eleven months without repeating yourself occasionally, so suck it.
It all started in the fall of 1997, when I fell in love with the Spice Girls. At the time I was in a very strange place, which I really don't want to get into at this juncture, but the bottom line is that I loved Baby Spice. Not liked, but loved. I've probably had stronger feelings for Baby Spice than any woman I've been with in real life (and to answer your question, no, I am not currently in therapy). My love of Baby Spice was only borderline sicko though, because at least I kept it to myself and there was no drawing blood or anything like that.
Anyway, when I got to college, I was determined to study abroad. Something about going to a foreign country, seeing all sorts of foreign girls that have no idea that I have a reputation for strangling girls during sex (not to kill them, but only to increase the potency of their "orgasm" - duh), really appealed to me. Since I had no interest in going anywhere where people didn't speak English, my options were limited. As someone who doesn't fly well, Australia and New Zealand were out of the question. As was South Africa, but I also disqualified South Africa because they have a lot of sharks there, and, well, it's fucking Africa. So that left Ireland and the UK.
My Irish-American family encouraged me to go to Ireland, the land of my ancestors, but I didn't want to. This was because Baby Spice wasn't Irish, she was British. Also, I get enough talk about "Irish this" and "Irish that" with my family, so if I went to Ireland, I would never hear the end of it. I'd be asked to recount my adventures (sans titties, cocaine, and child kidnapping) to my family at parties and holidays for the rest of my life. I really don't need that.
And so that's how I picked London. In January of 2000, I hoped on a Virgin Atlantic plane and landed in Heathrow, and thus began the greatest year of my life.
I have a lot of fond memories of London, most of which I won't divulge here because I plan on writing an epic "Ode To 2000" - the greatest year of my life (did I say that already?). But while in London, I was so broke that I had to stop eating, and lost forty pounds. I then went on a womanizing tear the likes of which will not be seen again until I get me some fame. I mean, good GOD. It was incredible. My buddies and I back-packed through Europe for a month, and suddenly we were transformed from nerds with bad hair to ultimate ladies' men with bad hair, hopping from one European city to the next, taking full advantage of the local peasant women. What a great time. Unfortunately, I think I was back in the US for three hours before I gained back thirty of the forty pounds I had lost. The other ten I gained back later that night while I slept, because I insisted on going to bed with a cheesesteak and a large canister of cheese whiz. When I woke up, both were gone. Also, I had peed the bed, but it wasn't pee, but rather a sticky, white substance. To this day, this mystery has never been solved.
And now I'm heading back. I went around this time last year and wrote about it on this site, at a time when about fourteen people were reading it (and now we're up to seventeen! keep spreading the word!). This time, I'm flying solo, but staying with my dear friend Nicole, who's in London doing grad work at LSE. I figured that if I had a free place to stay, I should take advantage of it, and any of Nicole's roommates with low self-esteem.
I have three goals for my trip to London:
1) Make me bankrupt until at least August.
Seeing as the exchange rate is murderous right now (£1 = $1.87), and knowing I have a slight penchant for overspending when I'm on vacation and filled with booze and Burger King, this should not be a problem at all. I land on Saturday at 11am, so I should be broke by Saturday at 2pm. Expect a giant "Please Donate, You Ungrateful Fucking Pricks" post shortly after my return, and possibly while I'm still away.
2) Don't do anything illegal (yes, that includes you solicitation).
I'm going to try to keep it clean and not break the law while in London. Note this doesn't apply to petty crimes like jaywalking or vehicular homicide, but rather buying/taking drugs or trying to pay anyone I see for a handjob. I have very little chance of accomplishing this goal.
3) Ruin my friendship with my friend Nicole.
Like Goal #1, this should also be very, very easy. I spoke to Nicole when she was home over the holidays:
Me: "Did you tell your roommates that I'm coming to visit?"
Nicole: "Of course I did. They're cool."
Me: "No, I mean, did you tell your roommates that I was coming to visit? Did you tell them about me?"
Nicole: "Oh stop it."
Nicole: "Look, just try to be a little normal when you come visit."
Me: "Ok, I will."
Nicole, you're probably reading this, so I want to let you know that I lied when I said I would try to be normal. I will most certainly try to be as abnormal as I possibly can, acting so bizarrely that your roommates will ask you to move out, doing weird shit like:
- randomly barking
- telling everyone that I am divorced, and speaking frequently about my ex-wife, looking off into the distance as I do so, with a pained expression on my face
- saying, "I was in the war" so that people will say, "What war?" and I'll say, "I don't want to talk about it", and then it'll get all uncomfortable as it looks like I'm about to start crying
- saving only a little bit of every beer I drink and putting it back in the fridge for later, so that by mid-week your fridge will be filled with 100 cans of beer only 15% full
- telling everyone that I lost a sister to a snuff film
- saying things like, "I forgot to pack my medication, and I don't know...I just really want to strangle a prostitute - do you ever get that feeling? I mean, just fucking grab 'em and choke 'em - you guys know what I'm talking about, right? Right?"
- constantly talking about how every time I get an erection it really hurts, but at the same time it really gets me hot
- taking food stuffs from your cabinets and hiding them in random areas of the apartment
- telling everyone I'm actually half-man, half-horse, but I look more like my dad (the man) than my mom (the horse)
London. One month. Can't wait.