Last Friday Night

Why do randos try to add me on Skype? Like, go on chat roulette if you’re lonely.

Lately, I’ve been clarifying things for people that probably don’t need clarifying. Here’s an example:


Like, did I really need to clarify that? Hopefully not. What do I think my friends think of me?

So, let’s talk about last Friday night. It started off casually. I was studying in my room—okay, I was watching Friends on Netflix—when my friend called and suggested we take a study break and meet up for a drink in town. So, I cycle into town and meet up with my three friends. We ended up wandering around to pretty much every pub in town trying to find the one that best suited us.

“So are we actually going to order a drink anywhere?” one friend inquires.

“No, we’re on a pub crawl,” I inform him.

“Yeah, one without alcohol,” my other friend chimes in.

Alas, Goldilocks x 4 found the right pub and ordered a drink. Of course, one drink turned into two, which turned into three, which was enough for my friend to look at me and say, “So are we going to Hercules?”

Hercules is one of two nightclubs in Lund where you don’t need a student membership to get in. From my experiences, it’s great when you’re really drunk (like most things), but otherwise you’re just standing in a sweaty basement with terrible music questioning your choices in life.

“Obviously,” I responded.

So the three of us (we lost one friend to responsibility along the way) head into the black abyss that is Hercules.

It starts out innocently enough; we order drinks, dance and run around in different directions harassing people. Soon after, a tall man from Montenegro approaches me. He played it cool for about 30 seconds before getting extremely aggressive.

“I have a boyfriend,” I said.

“No you don’t, you’re lying.”

“Okay fine, but I’m, um, busy.”

“If you don’t like me, just tell me,” he said.

“Okay, I don’t like you.” Ten points for honesty!

“Okay,” he said and walked away.

Five minutes later he was back, about two inches from my face.

“I decided I don’t care that you don’t like me.”

My eyes turned into saucers and my friend who had witnessed this entire encounter immediately grabbed my hand and yanked me away.

The night continued on casually enough when all of a sudden a group of guys motioned me over to the bar. I went and noticed one had purchased about 25 shots, which he immediately offered to my friends and me. Talk about generosity. Then things got weird. A large Italian man wandered up to us yelling about an after party with booze and weed. Then a very pretty Swedish guy explained that he couldn’t attend the after party because his mom is the president of Sweden. (I double-checked with my Swedish friend that Sweden does not, in fact, have a president.)

Meanwhile, my other friend was being set up with some married dude from Boston and we were all getting more intoxicated by the second as the free shots were seemingly never ending, compliments of the Real Princes of Scandinavia. Then one of them got really sad because he apparently had exam the next day and he was wasted. I hate when I accidentally get blacked out the night before an exam.

Let’s fast forward to the end of the evening. We’re standing on the dance floor when all of a sudden the unmistakable smell of shit floods our noses.

“What is that?” my friend asks.

Before I can even answer we notice the dance floor clearing out and everyone running to coat check. The details are a little fuzzy, but the general consensus seemed to be that someone pooped on the dance floor. Like, someone literally got pants shitting drunk. I know I said in my New Year’s post that when ABBA came on, I lost my shit on the dance floor, but this person literally lost their shit on the dance floor. That’s when you know it’s time to go home. Not because the music sucked or the lights came on or they ran out of beer—nope, it’s because someone pooped on the dance floor. Well done.

The night casually ended with me cycling home and crashing into a bush. I nursed my wounds and comforted myself with the knowledge that at least I wasn’t the one who had a bowel movement on the dance floor.

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