Humor, Life

ARE YOU BRITISH? LET’S BE FRIENDS

Do you ever have one of those bad days where it’s not really a “bad day” bad day, like you don’t have a plunging depression, and you don’t get knocked over in the supermarket, and you don’t rip your pants in front of that really cute boy with the half-moon smile? You just feel generally grumpy and want to trip someone.

Yeah, me neither.

JUST KIDDING, I’M DEFLECTING. I’m having one of those days now.

I’ve had “bad day” bad days, and today is not that. I’m in a mood that’s teetering over disgruntled and into “bah humbug” sans Christmas and three ghosts.

Last night I went to a bar—the bar of the college associated with Fictitious University’s study abroad satellite campus—with Jenny and Sebastien—are you happy? Now you know your name. Knowing you, though, there’s a good chance you might hate it—and friends of Jenny’s. It was really fun. It was also full of freshers—UK first years—and we largely spent our nights hovering around British people and whisper-arguing about how best to break into their conversations so as to make British friends.

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One of Jenny’s friends and I decided that we would use the “Do you have a lighter?” ploy to hijack the conversation of a group of three boys and a girl. We decided that that was a good ratio of peens-to-vajeens because it was obvious that the girl was just friends with the guys and it was not a Mormon Situation.

“Do you guys have a light?” Ainslie asks, holding a cigarette between her fingers.

The tallest boy—hook nose, but in a cute way, and a beanie covering sandy blonde hair—shakes his head. “No.”

“Wait,” I say, shouldering Ainslie aside. “Are you guys British or American?”

“American,” Hook says.

“FUCK,” I say. “Bye,” and half-jokingly begin to walk away. Obviously the joke is hilarious and everyone laughs and we begin to chat.

They’re all from Malibu—which is…no comment—and they’re all blonde and laugh at me when I do the “cool brah” hand thing where I stick my thumb and pinky out like a dickhead and shake it like a maraca.

Eventually, we get onto the topic of travel, and one of the boys—who is cute with glasses and is the definition of “Did I meet you before, or are you just a generic white boy?”—says they’re going to Sweden. Stockholm.

“Oh, you’ll have to listen to “Stockholm Syndrome” by—”

“By One Direction,” he finishes my sentence. How fucking cute. “I love them. I just went to their concert.”

“ME TOO,” I flirt-yell. “The Wednesday one.” He went to the Monday one. I’m planning a summer wedding. The groomsmaids will wear champagne.

Side bar: Once my older sister told me that she would refuse to be in my wedding party if the genders on both sides of the wedding party were not balanced. We both know that’s false, because Margot will grab at any chance to stand in front of other people in a fancy dress.

Long gay story short, he’s not gay. We found this out when Jenny said, loudly, “I don’t even like One Direction that much, I just want to have sex with Harry Styles. Which one do you want to have sex with?” and Stockholm just answered, “Um. None of them? I just like their music?”

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  1. NO ONE JUST LIKES ONE DIRECTION’S MUSIC.
  2. I don’t want to paint with a broad brush, but no straight males should ever like One Direction because then you should be gay and in love with me.
  3. EVEN IF YOU’RE STRAIGHT, THE ANSWER IS ALWAYS LIAM PAYNE.

So other than the feeble attempt at romance with Stockholm, I didn’t meet any cute boys who like boys. I just talked to “straight” people about “England” and “nuclear weapons” and “cricket.” I have a wide breadth of conversation topics. I can discuss nuclear weapons almost as easily as I can discuss the pros and cons of Khloé Kardashian being classified as the “hottest Kardashian” while Kim is pregnant. Also I binge-read multiple articles about what Kim will be naming her son. Some sources are saying Easton but that hurts me, so I’m gonna veto that one. My vote is still on Ocean. Or Second Coming of Christ West.

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And I hate being that person who’s like “Oh I didn’t meet any guys tonight, so the world is a black, swirling void and nothing matters,” because I hate that person but I just want to meet a cute boy. Or I want to pet a cute dog. These are simple requests. I’m a very reasonable person. I’m like the most low-key celebrity ever.

So after a night of eating ramen, drinking beer at the university bar, and finishing off with my very first Burger King, I woke up today feeling about as good as roadkill. I didn’t shower before class, so as usual I was sweaty and uncute.

After going to the gym, showering, singing to “Shake It Off” and eating stir fry—and watching Miranda—I feel a little less grumpy and a little less frumpy. And now I’m sitting on the floor and my butt hurts but I’m talking with my friends. Charlie and Millie. Idk if you’re gonna like those names but I chose them already. Deal with it, kittens.

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Life, Rambles

“NEVER TOO OLD FOR ONE DIRECTION” IS WHAT I KEEP TELLING MYSELF

Wednesday, September 30th.

“I smell like a gym locker,” I scream over One Direction.

Jenny laughs and motions that she is, too, afflicted with this condition. We’re perched like birds in the upper echelons of the O2, a stadium that is currently filled with five thousand screaming girls, two thousand screaming women, one hundred adult men, and me and Jenny clutching each other whenever Liam, Niall or Harry pop up on the big screen.

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From our nosebleed seats, One Direction looks like a cluster of beautiful, tiny Polly Pocket dolls, but their visages blown up onto the two massive screens on either side of the stage cause us to go into literal fits of passion.

The mix of screaming and deep, chesty gasps is making the oxygen thin in the stadium, and the temperate is rising, making me steam like a lobster in my—very attractive—Zara, olive green bomber jacket that I had bought two hours previous.

As I hoarsely screech out the words to “Through the Dark,” I can’t believe that I’m actually here because who the fuck would’ve thought that I would buy tickets to a One Direction concert?

Answer: probably everyone. Except for…me.

It was a very spur of the moment, “I’m in London once why am I not going to seize this great experience by the balls” decision to purchase the ticket and even more of a spur of the moment decision to buy a $60 jacket to go along with my outfit. But I looked FUCKING AMAZING so really I think the decisions proved to be good.

We are easily older than everyone else in our area—barring moms—by at least four years, and while that fact would’ve made me feel embarrassed in a normal situation, apparently this One Direction concert veers into the fantastical because not only did we not give a flying fuck, we also danced like maniacs and screamed a multitude of sins towards the boys that were not appropriate for our surroundings but are perfectly appropriate to discuss right now:

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Can you guess which one is mine? Does it even matter? Both are cries for help.

And also if you’ve ever read 1D fan fiction, you know that me screaming, “Liam, murder my vagina!” is definitively not the worst thing that these kids have ever heard. Oops, I gave away which one was mine. Now the mystique is gone.

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Also I wanted to name this post “Murder My Vagina, Liam Payne,” but I feel like that would be a “negative” in the vast Internet presence I am trying to cultivate.

One Direction is so good that it hurts and I took, like, a 100-second Snapchat story, which I cannot confirm because of the Snapchat update making the actual number-count obsolete. Once again, the new Snapchat update is getting in the way of legitimate journalism.

I felt more like a local navigating the tube after the concert, switching between different Underground lines. Nothing makes you feel like more of a goddamn badass than making a successful transfer. Coupled with my sleek, chic outfit and glasses, I felt like I looked like a local. Until I open my mouth and my American accent comes squawking out, I can—almost—pass.

Afterwards, Jenny and I went to a bar and danced with other people in our study abroad program until I finally went home at around 2 am, having gone on a muthafucking BUS and not getting stabbed. I don’t even use buses at home. I don’t even know if I know how to use the buses at home. I am truly a Londoner and will not accept any claims to the contrary. Or any clams.

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All in all, One Direction was a total win and I’m so glad I got to go and I even spent essentially the entire day with Jenny—well, like fourteen hours—and I didn’t want to stab her by the end or anything! Which is…progress? It means I’m a maturing human?

BOOBS.

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