Such Pretty Fingernails

The night began as usual, me dressing to kill and killing to get her out of her dress. But the night was young and not getting any younger, thus we proceeded to the good man Pip’s house for vodka tonics and home made pizza – artichoke, ham and mushroom to boot – and a few good laughs. Processions came as they often do, somewhere in the range of 30% drunk shuffles and laughing over easy conversation.

Upon arriving at the scene everything appeared to be normal. The English were drinking and the foreigners were showing up five pints into the evening. We started out small talking over who had overdressed for the occasion, various jobs won and lost, and the state of the bathroom’s lack of elbow room before moving on to jokes about how the English were kind enough to let the Americans have their freedom or whether or not Europe would all be driving Volkswagens to and from their concentration camp lifestyles if it weren’t for the Stars and Stripes sticking their foot in. The good man Pip, upper-bourgeois as he was and meterosexual of the sort inclined to love his fellow man, insisted on us exchanging our seats at the pub for a few over-priced trendy stools at his club of choice where we lasted long into the night sipping a variety of cocktails with unpronouncable French titles and throwing down shots of an amalgam of bottled liquors. Stumbling feet over cigarette handshakes ensued and hug after backslap was enjoyed.

The night turned into very early morning and a suggestion of us moving the party beachside ended up in me bastardizing my clothing and diving into the sea, that great ocean swell that seperated me from my not-so-humble homeland. I swam out great lengths, into the ups and downs and unknown swimming suckers below me before losing all will to survive and being washed back ashore, laying there like a beached pufferfish, naked and knocking against rock-sandy shores.

Eyes went closed later that night, and dreams would give way to a solid drunken sleep. The next morning I would find my head stirring with memories of petty arguments over the dangers of walking in front of cars which drove in the wrong lanes and the futility of attempting to swim an ocean, BAC .23% or otherwise, as well as the head shivering realities of remembering that I had kissed a man not once but thrice in the yestereve.

I’ve learned to enjoy fruit.

Up Next: General Calamity of the Pillow Headed Sort