Get Off My Blog, Mom.

My greatest fear has come to life: my mother has gained a low level of computer competency and she has hacked the blog. I feel like my own personal FCC is watching me. Hi mom.

Jessica Cleans Up Her Language At The Expense of Her Blog's Level of Intrigue

I should be packing right now for Berlin and Prague, but my knee is in a brace (I'll get to that soon enough) and I've recently decided that packing with little mini-toiletries isn't much fun. Also I'm lazy.

So last night we decided to go to a place called "Carpe" which I don't think translates into anything appealing in any language (it's either a fish, a complaint, or "Seize The" which, at a club, is not a friendly encouragement, but more a lurking threat). It did, however, translate into a free bottle of champagne (champaaaanya) for every three girls. Being vehemently against sexism in any form, I simply took one for the team and correctly figured it would be made up to me by creepy men expecting the alcohol to lower a forcefield that would somehow make me at all interested in them. Calm down, I'll get there.

So we topped off the champaaaanya and RedBull and Vodkas are only a euro all night, so I got to use the phrase "Filler up, barkeep!" about 60 times, and it was ok because he didn't understand me anyway. Being the first people to get to the club, no one was on the dance floor; enter "Gold Digger." Being a faithfully stereotypical white lady, I know every word to that song. Every. Word. We got the dance floor going.

Up until this point, Germans have been fulfilling every Falco-induced image I have of their music, especially in techno clubs (see earlier post regarding this phenomenon)but last night completely redeemed the entire country. Spice Girls, Michael Jackson, Prince, and even Wheatus made appearances and I squealed with delight and bounced energetically each time (again, white lady). On my 8th trip to the bar (feeling no effects of the alcohol, or so I thought), a wonderful Nigerian approached me, introducing himself as Humphrey. I like him immediately.
"You are a good dancer!" I liked him even more.
"Let me buy you two girls a beer" We were riding a tandem bicycle in my head.
Let me put my hand on your back suggestively while we talk to your friends. I suddenly had something important to attend to across the bar and away from him.

I was quickly the recipient of a swaying German who had been pawned off by his friend who was hitting on Stephanie. Because he didn't speak much English and remained about 8 inches away from me at all times, I danced with him for the rest of the night. It got to be about 2:30am, and half of us geared up to leave. My leg was feeling oddly sore, but right then "Kiss" by Prince came on and I bounced on it some more, because, let's be honest: the man made Purple Rain. You can't hear Prince and not dance, it's just a rule. So finally, after I had had my fill of terrible and worn-out pop songs,we sauntered out of the bar toward the bus stop.

It wasn't until I stumbled into the kitchen and eyed the Nutella with a certain indescribable lust that I realized I was, in fact, quite drunk and very content; the world was in a perfect place. This morning I couldn't move my leg and my voice was gone, but the consensus is that it was worth it.

Tomorrow I head off to Berlin, and then to Prague on Sunday for more wacky misadventures and offensive behavior.
Stay tuned!