Last night was great. I just don’t remember much of it. I am really, really, really hungover.
I do remember that I went to this very, very American bar called Sports Cafe. I have this odd affinity for the establishment, in which I refuse to go to it all together, but then go and have a ball and want to stay forever.
I also remember going with my friends (side note: they call it “pre-lashing” here, not pre-gaming).
I also remember being really happy, because on Thursday I’m going to Budapest and it’s going to be fucking awesome. My friend has this itinerary lined up that would float the boat of even the most assiduous of naysayers. The end of this trip will cap off a two week period in which I have only spent five days in London, despite the fact that I’m supposed to be living and learning here. So much for that.
I kind of remember being drunk and silly. Dancing on tables might have been involved.
I definitely remember Italy last week, which was phenomenal despite the occasional homelessness and nearly assured deportation.
I somehow forgot that I went shopping earlier in the day. I was surprised to find the bag from the metrosexual store on my floor this morning.
I also forgot that I, again, almost got in a fight with a guy seventeen times my size at the boxing game machine.
I also managed to forget the tequila shots. But let’s face it, who was going to remember those anyway?
I also forgot about the [OMISSION BY AUTHOR]
But this morning, amidst all the retentions and lapses in memory, I was reminded of Thanksgiving somehow (probably because I’m hungry. You know drunchies, you Burger King loyalist you). Maybe it was because I was at the American place last night, full of Americanism and Americanist douche-bags and the like. Also because I’m gchatting someone right now and that person reminded me.
The point is, Thanksgiving makes me quietly somber. You know that stupid-ass phrase that you’re supposed to say at the dinner table? “What are you thankful for this year, honey?” Well, when you don’t hear it, you begin to figure it out. It has a lot to do with things right in front of you: family, time-tested friends, home, America, home-cooked food… you don’t get that shit in London. Only various takes on black-out drunken debauchery… which is never a problem, of course. Just not preferable given my cross-Atlantic option.
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