Adventures of an asshole

I woke up at seven o’clock. Felt rested. Then suddenly the time was ten o’clock and it still felt like I just woke up. God damn snooze function!

What shall we think about people that "likes" their own comments on Facebook?

Small self-centred animals needy for attention. There are no friends like Facebook-friends.

Facebook gives people the opportunity to think that their lives matter to people that aren't in their immediate circle. That is why they post pictures and status-updates of their children.

“Look my little hellspawn have just learned to shit his pants. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

If you are not on Facebook, you don’t exist. If no one can read your thoughts you do not have any.

Come to think about it, I guess it is just like having a blog.

PS: Have you ever thought of how “gorgeous” sounds like “gore us”?

Okay, shutterbugs get your note pads up cause this is going to be intense. Ready?

Here we go.

Two nights ago I was out nightclubbing in Limerick with some friends. I have been drinking in Ireland before. But then it was more or less calm events. This was something else. But I’ll get to that.

Anyway, the night started like nights like these tend to: with alcoholic consumption at someone’s place. During the pre-party I learned a lot of useful phrases. For instance, I learned that all words can be used instead of the word “drunk”. If you say it the right way words like planked, floored, soused, sloshed, flushed, moshed, etc. can be used to the describe state. Lovely.

Anyway, I had beer with me. It’s nothing that I am proud of but I was thirsty. Now I just needed an opener. Alas there where none. So I did what I usually do during these circumstances: I used my key. I was surprised to find out that the Irish keys aren’t as stern as the Swedish ones. With the keys from my home country I am able to open beer-bottles, kill zombies and use them as screwdrivers. They can withstand anything, including common stupidity. The key to my present accommodation didn’t. It bent. Stupid as I was, I tried to bend it back. Then it broke in half. I exclaimed, “fuck!” and showed the parts to my new friends. They laughed their asses of.

– You’re fucked, they said.

I agreed and opened the bottle with a knife instead. We drank, called a taxi and went for the city.

The first place we tried to get into had one of the longest queues I’ve ever seen. It was amazing!  100 meters of human flesh waiting in line like cattle, pressing to get in. I think three or four persons grabbed my ass as we stood in line.

After 15 minutes or so we decided that it wasn’t worth it to stand in line. We left and went to another club. On the way there we saw a bunch of guys standing in different corners taking a leak. Piss on the streets of Limerick. Classy.

We got to the other place. Got in and went for the bar. In between dancing and drinking I got asked really direct questions from different persons.

Some of the questions where:

·      Are you gay?

·      Do you want a joint?

·      Are you Canadian?

Another thing that happened was that the Irish girls on the dance floor kept ruffling my hair. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out if the entities in short shorts and mini-skirts where fucking with me or wanted to fuck me. It seems like body language is not international. When I asked one of my new friends he answered quite short.

–      It was a come-on dude.

Cool I thought, bought another drink and danced some more. Speaking of come-ons. One thing I noticed as I did my anthropologycal studies was that the Irish couples didn’t seem to make-up with any passion. The girls and boys all seemed to have the same technique. The guys had one hand under one of the girls buttocks, like if they where checking it for weight or something. The other hand was either hanging along the guys sides or gently placed on the girls back. The girls on the other hand had their hands on the guys back. No passion. No gusto. Just basic mechanics.

I wonder why that is. Is it because they controlled themselves out of fear of being thrown out from the club? Was it because they haven’t snugged with many objects of their attraction before?

More studies and more data are needed before a trustworthy hypothesis can be established.

Another thing that happened was that I started dancing 70’s-disco-Travolta-style. As I did a guy nudged me and said that I better stop.

–      ­Why? I asked.

–      Cause people might think you are gay and beat you up, he answered.

So much for the Irish equality.

After the club closed we went to have some food and then we went home to some of my friends who where kind enough to let me sleep on their couch.

The first thing I did when I woke up was to look at the guy who leaned over me. He ate Kellogg’s corn flakes. The second thing I did was getting into the city, found a key-smith (or whatever they are called) and got my key fixed. So now I got an unbroken key and some more experiences.

Lovely!

I dreamt I was walking in junkyard, wadeing through a sea of steal chips and splinters. I remember it felt like quicksand. Sinking. Feeling my mouth and nose filling up with cold iron and metal. And then I was in a room, getting seduction advise from a man I’ve never met. As he spoke his hands was caressing a black rope, making knots. Then I woke up.

What would Freud say about this?

Yesterday some friends and I went to the place where most people get herpes in Ireland every year. No, we did not go to one of the many places in Ireland where you can get a lap dance or a blowjob for very a reasonable price. We went to Blarney Castle.

For you who don’t know it (probably any reader who aren’t from Ireland) Blarney Castle was built in the 15^th century and was a very significant tactical spot for anyone who had it in his mind to conquer the Emerald Island.

It is also the resting place for the Blarney stone. It is said that if you kiss the stone you get the gift of Irish eloquence, which basically means being able to talk out of your ass. The gift of the gab it’s called.

Of course I felt a desperate need to kiss the stone. Being one of Irelands most experienced kissers I was quite unsatisfied with the stones extraordinary lack of technique. It was all tongue and no passion.

Now, do people get herpes from kissing the stone?

Probably not. I just thought it was funny to say.

The first glimpse of Blarney Castle

Of course the Irish is in an economical crisis. They throw away their money!

Michelle looking smug

Inside the dungeon we found many signs of semi-intelligent life

Another pic of Blarney Castle

The gang under a tree outisde the castle

Me good looking as always

Snugging a stone

Here endeth the story

The first tune of the first riff of first track on Rollins Bands album Get Some Go Again pulses through my ears as I climb the stairs to the gym. Haven’t lifted weights in months. I miss the iron. When the chorus of the song Illumination hits I am already on the treadmill, running. My pulse is rising.

I run for ten minutes. Then I do burpees. Ten times three. This is when I realise how fucking out of shape I am. By the second set my heart pounds the insides of my ribs so hard I think there will be a crack. I continue. Pushing myself.

Next obstacle on the scheduale are the bench-press and the free weights. I do the sets, lift the weights. I have missed the iron and it has missed me. When I am done I am sweetie, my veins are pumping battery acid and Rollins band has been changed to Rallypack. I feel great!

Two days of orientation of the University of Limerick and this is what I remember:

It’s the first day of the orientation at the University of Limerick and the student unions president tells me that he wants to know me. Not just that. He wants to know about me. It doesn’t really matter that the room is full of people and that he stands on stairs, kind of like Zarathustra, sermonizing to the crowd. He says, “We want to know about you” I know he means me. For some reason he isn’t alone in having a curious interest in me.

Jump to day two of the orientation. I am sitting with about 200 or so Erasmus students in a church sized lecture-hall. In the front there are two of the members of the university’s chaplaincy who informs us that God loves us and that their doors are always open. This makes me feel a bit awkward.

I am, like some of you know, an atheist. I try not to shovel that opinion up in stranger’s faces as long as they don’t ask. To me, that would just be rude. But if someone has the bad taste to do that, I get kind of pist of. So while father-what’s-his-name tells us about God or whatever, I am making cartoons of priests with baseball bats and vampire teeth.

Jump to when one of the speakers asks us how many Germans there is present and forty or so persons extends their right arm, Nurnberg style. I don’t know who the speaker is but he wants to know about me and the other Erasmus students. So do the guys from the different societies, clubs and departments that are up next.

My initial response to this sudden interest in my persona is that of paranoia. I mean why would they want to know about me? What do they know already?

But at the end I succumb and exclaim “I want to know about the you to, random people!”

PS: As I am writing this, I can’t recall any piece of information I got during the orientation.