I think I hit a new Facebook low.

8/15/09

I just finished season two of the Tudors, and I knew it was coming, but I still cried when they lopped Anne Boleyn’s head off. I felt some affinity with her character, considering we’re both crazy bitches, and I loved her hair accessories. And when it comes down to it, that’s what really matters. Right after the shot of her demise, they showed Henry feasting upon a swan, just reaching right in and grabbing huge chunks while laughing.

A) You’re eating a swan. A lily-white fucking pure swan. Asshole.

B) That definitely goes over your 2000 a day calorie allotment. No wonder you begin to resemble Fat Bastard in a couple of years.

C) Anne is so much hotter than that hussy Jane Seymour. Just because she’s blonde doesn’t mean she’s a good time. It means she has Chlamydia.

If Henry wasn’t played by the beautiful Jonathon Rhys Meyers, who stole my heart in the multi-cultural masterpiece Bend It Like Beckham, I might stop watching the show altogether. Good thing I don’t have any will power to speak of.

Our flat is covered in book shelves, and with the novels and textbooks left over from previous residents. They range from the usual trash-fiction, to the occasional good book, but usually they’re just guides about London and its history. Today while I was perusing the shelves (and curling my hair, I’m not that sophisticated) I came across Merriam Webster’s Vocabulary Builder. What a great way to improve my vocabulary, and sound like even more of a pretentious asshole. Hurray! However, my excitement quickly dropped to more of a “meatloaf in the Hans tonight” level. The words are so basic, even my half-retarded brother or a business student could flip through it without learning a substantial amount. Cosmetic? Conspicuous? Deity? Really people, really? Once again I blame public school.

Last night we went back to Cargo because of free entry Friday, and it was pretty awesome. Granted we had to wait in line for about forty-five minutes because of fire code restrictions but I had my trusty jean jacket to brave the cold. Once again GAP, I am forever indebted to you. Britain has far less fire code restrictions than America, but instead of shoving everyone in and having a million fire exits and/or hoping for the best, they can only have a certain amount of people per fire exit. That means we have to wait for a certain amount of people to leave before we can get in. Once we did get in, there was a huge screen looming over the dance floor that had trippy lights and spirals and colors that complimented the techno quite nicely. They had a live DJ spinning, and it was classic European techno. Basically a room full of people just bouncing around with no rhythm whatsoever. Picture a European frat party with the guys having even less game than normal.

Today we journeyed to the Marylborne and Portobello Road markets, and because I’m a good child I didn’t buy anything. Just a reduced Ploughman’s sandwich at Tesco’s. Shame isn’t in my vocabulary. Marylborne was quite expensive and didn’t have that many stalls, there were a bunch of higher class clothing and accessory designers and an array of good food. Considering Sarah and I are design students, we spent the majority of the time bitching about how we could make the various pins and such for about 80 bucks cheaper. But let’s face it, I don’t have the energy and I ran out of glue for my glue gun after bedazzling my backpack. Just trying to live the dream people.

Portobello Road just had a bunch of the same things we’ve seen in Camden Market and Brick Lane, except it was even more overpriced because it was in Notting Hill. It’s pretty over there, but I like my area better because we have the gardens. I actually hadn’t been back there since Penn left, and it was nice to walk around once more and remember getting lost every damn time I tried to find their house. Which is next door to Stella McCartney’s mansion. Who did our schools sleep with to get these leases?

8/16/09

I am such a baller, I just won a prize pack from Whole Foods Kensington. With it came the strangest mix of excitement and sadness. Excitement because I’m getting an array of their body lotions for free, and sadness because I won by responding quickly enough to a query on facebook. Tomorrow I have to go to their information desk to claim it, thereby admitting I’m facebook friends with a fucking store. It gets worse, I saw their question come up on the newsfeed and I googled the answer instead of actually knowing about the product. I am a failure of a facebook friend, and as a person. However, come to think of it, I should be less embarrassed to be friends with them than some of the Drexel trash I’m forced into acquaintance with. Do us all a favor: go build a fort out of your old Natty Light boxes and stay there.

Last night a club promoter that knows one of the girls on our trip got us into a members only club with no cover. We had to rush and barely made it because the deal was we had to get there before 11:30 or pay the usual twenty pound entrance fee. I forget the name of the club, but it was down a side street in Piccadilly where the higher end clubs were located, and it was next to a club called Beautiful People. Sounds like someone didn’t make it onto the cheerleading team in high school and is desperately trying to make up for it now. Let it go, some things weren’t just meant to be. It was pretty in there, but the drinks were expensive (think 18 or 20 American) so I was glad I had pre-gamed like a damn camel. Unlike Whiskey Mist we knew we were going someplace fancy and had actually dressed for the occasion. It seemed to be a mix of awkward older white men trying to hit on really skinny Indian girls who would only dance with themselves, and the near blacked out white gold-diggers who were amusing the club promoters. It was fun, but everyone was blatantly a good decade or two older than me.

Unfortunately today was my last Sunday in London, as I spend next week in Dublin and the Sunday after that I jet back to the great and beautiful airport they call Newark, New Jersey. And then to Logan airport where I will be greeted by my loving family who will then proceed to give me as much fruit and cookies as they possibly can. Right? Right. I guess I always took fruit for granted, I know it’s expensive but it’s absolutely ridiculous with the exchange rate. The only ones that are moderately priced are green grapes. I hate green grapes. Fucking loathe them. But anyway, today we went back to Brick Lane for the Sunday Up Market, and all of the stalls were different. I went with the intention of buying presents for my family, but considering my mother is a whore I think I’m going to keep my meerkat totebag for myself. That’s what you get for not picking up the phone. The screenprinter I got it from had a lot of great work that made me want to kick myself for not thinking of better designs for screenprinting class. But then again, I’m not the one selling shirts in a stall. Yet. I’m so scared.

When I was taking a breather in one of the stall areas, it finally hit me that this kind of stuff would never happen in America. First of all, everyone was a hipster there. Everyone. Every other person in the market was wearing that white straw hat with the black brim and scene glasses. The atmosphere is also very different, no one really rushes about here sans the business section of London on a weekday. And then rush hour is those same people going to happy hour. I know Europeans live longer than Americans, and I don’t think it’s because f the food or exercise (I have yet to see a gym, but they eat fast food like it’s their job) so I’m thinking it has to do with stress. I would love to know their secret, but I’m just going to throw it out there and say they just don’t give a flying fuck. Minimum wage is around eleven pounds, and with universal healthcare anyone can easily live off of that. I absolutely love it over here, but I don’t think I could ever see myself permanently living here. First off there’s the whole family and friends issue, and second it’s a completely different way of life that I’m not used to. A lot of things are worse in America, but it's still the land of the free and the home of J Crew. Basically, it’s the devil I know and I’m sticking with it.

Abbey Road was...a road.

7/9/09

I feel hurt, nay betrayed. I had mentioned in a previous blog about buying a one of kind dress and scarf, but today I saw them both. In a retail store. In fucking Camden (which I believe should be left for the illicit Middle School punks and the Peter Pans who never grew up out of their Hot Topic oversized black cargo pants) We get it, you’re an individual. (cue world’s smallest brass band) On the bright side, I paid less for them at Brick Lane, but on the other hand I also saw my supposed unique bracelet that I got in a rather nice boutique in Shoreditch, for cheaper at some cart with a super-smiley Japanese woman. At least this gives me more incentive to not buy any more clothes. I’m not helping out their bastard economy any more than I should.

Speaking of economy, these people aren’t acting like we’re in the middle of a recession. On the way back from Camden all I saw were people with Chanel, Gucci, and Burberry bags. Taking public transportation. Needless to say it irked me, not only because I was jealous but because it seems the wealthy are as susceptible to B.O as the rest of us peasants. However, although I have said it time and time again, they really did stick us in the nicer part of town. The family next door to us has a driver, and whenever he’s not chauffeuring them around he’s parked outside our door because none of us have cars. Just inflated American ego’s. He’s an awesome guy, and on more than one occasion has jumped out of the Mercedes to give me a hand with the door when my hands were full of groceries. And by groceries I mean alcohol. He’s also given us huge bags of exotic fruit (mango’s, leechee nuts, clementines, a tropical cornicopia of sorts) because he said he was full and his employers just hand it off to him everyday. And I thought I was cool because I bought a coconut in the almost expired section at Tesco’s. (Three youtube instructional video’s and a windowsill later, it was finally open)

As I was saying before, I went back to Camden today because people wanted to go again and I still hadn’t seen the Lock. Camden was exactly the same, lines and lines of stalls all selling the same band shirts and fake vintage clothing, with tons of stalls of Mexican and Chinese food. I ended up getting a ham and cheese crepe, but needless to say it couldn’t compare to my 4 in the morning crepe in Paris. Le sigh. We ate by the Lock, and it just turned out to be a somewhat dirty stretch of river that they had placed fake motorcycle seating upon for tourists and shoppers. I was rather excited because one of the punks had handed me a flier for a one-night-only metal party, with three floors of the bar all dedicated to different cover bands for a lot of the metal and industrial bands I like, with no cover. Of course it’s the Saturday we’re going to Dublin, but I don’t think I’m allowed to complain….or am I?

Yesterday we went to Abbey Road because it was the fortieth or fiftieth anniversary of something. I don’t know and I don’t really care. All I seem to remember is we spent about two and a half hours taking pictures on that G-d damn crosswalk. Everyone went across it multiple times to try to get perfectly in line and in sync with the album cover, all the while nearly getting hit by cars. Needless to say I gave up after one attempt, not being a huge Beatles fan, and valuing my life over a facebook album. The above picture is me being an ass and hooking on the corner, safely in front of the crosswalk. Not saying I don’t like the Beatles, just admitting I haven’t been exposed to them. We ended up all signing the white gate outside the recording studio (oh, the one that gets repainted quite often?) and were interviewed by some Irish radio guy. When he asked for names most of us, being the self-promoting whores we are, just gave websites. I should hopefully have mine up and running by winter term. Not just a blog or portfolio…an experience.

The night before we had ventured to Fabric, supposedly one of the best clubs in London. The music was positively amazing, they had at least four floors, with reggae and techno and trance and rap. Was it worth the 13 pounds admission? Meh, I’m more of a bar person. Had there been less pushy and smelly people there it would have thoroughly more enjoyable, but it seemed to be a hotspot for Eurotrash and they refused to take our International student ID. (If they don’t believe the lie, what am I left with?) I was in the second group of people to leave and I got home around 5, which is early for that place. Too bad I left all my mind expanding drugs at home. In my second drawer in the nightstand next to my bed. Inside my old rock collection kit. Have fun Mother.

The day before, Lauren and I didn’t have class so we ducked in and out of Primark (aka the fifth circle of hell, bargain shopping for Europeans) to grab tights. We also ended up going into Selfridges which is like a Neiman Marcus times two and a half. Why there are so many more designer things around here is beyond me. Oh wait, they can afford it. Once again the design inside the store was amazing and I am insanely jealous that we don’t have that kind of experience over in the states. Every damn mannequin seemed to be crystallized or painted in another manner, especially in the menswear sections. No wonder they’re all metrosexual. FCUK was a hop a skip and jump away so I made Lauren go in with me so I could fondle the jacket I wanted. She bought a dress, and I was good and just made yet another mental list of “things I’ll buy when I get back because they’re the same thing for half price.” However, when going upon the FCUK website, the US one was rather bare. They had practically nothing that was in the London store. Nothing. Even the web design between the UK and US site is completely different. The UK one is more reminiscent of the Urban website (photo collage wise) and the US just tries to be sleek and sophisticated. Damn those pretentious Americans, damn them.