shitfaced

Right now I’m at ‘the center’ (the center for critical studies, where I have courses with the other Americans) and there are some girls talking about their traveling plans. One of them just said, “I think we should get our hair cut while we’re in London.”

On Friday night, I went to Molly’s place to drink with her, Jen, and Brittany. I like Molly, she talks real and she can she can roll with the bros. I talked with Jen for a while, too, about what her and her friends from school think of relationships. I think she can probably roll with the bros too. Jared joined us, we boozed a bit more, and left for the Odéon. At the stop, Molly and I randomly met three French girls, they were art students in their first year. We struck up a conversation with them and they took us to a bar in the area known for its sangrias. I was quite enamored of them. They spoke pretty good English, but we stuck to French for the most part.

At the bar we sat down with our sangrias, it was a good group: Jared, Dan, and I, and Molly, Jen, and Brittany at the table next to ours. I asked the French girls about their experiences in the United States. After a little three of their friends came and joined us, two guys and a girl. I started talking about American drinking habits, and the guy sitting next to me, a cool guy, told us that while in United States, he had learned the term “shit faced.” I thought that was good.

After that place closed, we went back to the place from the day before and got in one drink before we had to leave. Luckily, Dan lives in the 6th and had free beds. Dan and Jared got into another argument like the one before, I tuned most of it out but there was the same pomo bull shit stopping the conversation from going anywhere. In the morning we got up and had a bromantic time, we bought some baguette and sat around eating it with cheese, eggs, and humus. I was feeling pretty good, thinking something like, ‘this had been a good weekend.’