Last night I witnessed more evidence of the debaucherous, neanderthalic shenanigans of the Budapest party hostels. Now for the most part, my experience of these heathens has been somewhat tainted with idiocy. It has usually consisted of lots of tall morons wearing wife beaters emblazoned with Fluer De Cana or some other such unoriginal shite. While I attempt to look semi respectable, everyone else has gone out looking like a tramp, and you can spot several nipple rings if you stand next to these people at a certain angle. There’s usually so many tattoos you wonder where the skin starts, and I’m concerned as to when they last came into contact with soap. However, they know how to throw a party. They’re not a bad bunch really…
I’ve woken up with blisters on my fingers, and my right hand has dried blood all over the nails. For the first time in my life, I was playing open mic with a full band, and on the odd occasion I had that rarest of feelings that this was what it was like to be rock star. Now I’m not saying was any good, far from it – several vodka red bulls saw to that – but for the briefest of moments, superstardom beckoned. Strange then that I look across to my right and only see a cushion. I must have been really shit. Delusions of grandeur. It was nice while it lasted.
The odd thing with these aussie types is that it’s actually quite warm under the wing of the dragon. I had a blast. If you can’t beat em, join em; but I won’t be downing cupfuls of salt, mayonnaise and cold soup any time soon. I might consider a tattoo though, if only I could take my shirt off on a beach.
My time in Budapest is drawing to a end. One door closes, and…um…another one…wait…any second now…no. Another door remains closed. Oh no there we are it’s opened. Potential employment as an English teacher. That is if I passed the course. I find out tomorrow. So the door is actually still closed. I’m rambling. I shouldn’t update my blog when I’m hungover. I’m away to get chocolate milk. Seriously that stuff could cure anything.
Played it till my fingers bled…
Last night I witnessed more evidence of the debaucherous, neanderthalic shenanigans of the Budapest party hostels. Now for the most part, my experience of these heathens has been somewhat tainted with idiocy. It has usually consisted of lots of tall morons wearing wife beaters emblazoned with Fluer De Cana or some other such unoriginal shite. While I attempt to look semi respectable, everyone else has gone out looking like a tramp, and you can spot several nipple rings if you stand next to these people at a certain angle. There’s usually so many tattoos you wonder where the skin starts, and I’m concerned as to when they last came into contact with soap. However, they know how to throw a party. They’re not a bad bunch really…
I’ve woken up with blisters on my fingers, and my right hand has dried blood all over the nails. For the first time in my life, I was playing open mic with a full band, and on the odd occasion I had that rarest of feelings that this was what it was like to be rock star. Now I’m not saying was any good, far from it – several vodka red bulls saw to that – but for the briefest of moments, superstardom beckoned. Strange then that I look across to my right and only see a cushion. I must have been really shit. Delusions of grandeur. It was nice while it lasted.
The odd thing with these aussie types is that it’s actually quite warm under the wing of the dragon. I had a blast. If you can’t beat em, join em; but I won’t be downing cupfuls of salt, mayonnaise and cold soup any time soon. I might consider a tattoo though, if only I could take my shirt off on a beach.
My time in Budapest is drawing to a end. One door closes, and…um…another one…wait…any second now…no. Another door remains closed. Oh no there we are it’s opened. Potential employment as an English teacher. That is if I passed the course. I find out tomorrow. So the door is actually still closed. I’m rambling. I shouldn’t update my blog when I’m hungover. I’m away to get chocolate milk. Seriously that stuff could cure anything.