Time To Get The Fuck Out
I got into my dorm room and sat on the chair. The chair broke. So, I’ll have to say that my first impression of university life in the UK wasn’t that good. I probably needed to lose some weight.
The first time I came to London, my mom and I lived in a small, shitty hotel in Pimlico staffed by people who seemed to think that standing in the entrance and annoyingly greet everyone was a better use of their time than to actually clean the place. This was the big city, workers seemed to wear reflexive jackets just to be able to stand in the middle of the road and smoke, not to actually fix any potholes, or take care of broken plumbing. We were there to check out three different universities: Spring Gardens University, the University of Northwick, and St Donatts.
Spring Gardens had called me to an interview this specific weekend and we decided to squeeze in the other two while we were there. I had essentially already secured a place at Northwick and St Donatts, but I knew that I would go to Spring Gardens if they would have me, seeing as I had gone to Stockholm University for a year just to be able to apply to Spring Gardens again a year later.
I’ve always been annoyed by the triviality of the human mind, and yes, writing that sentence did make me want to kill myself, but it’s true. Being asked asinine questions have always driven me mad. Being a foreigner, I was inherently somewhat interesting to the Brits. But with that came expressions of guilt from at least one girl (whom I wanted to bang, didn’t get to, but it ended up being for the better because she was a little bit nuts) who said she felt guilty because she didn’t speak my language when I had taken the time to learn hers.
This was of course asinine in and of itself since I had chosen to come to her country, not the other way around. My usual response was: “You guys built an empire, after that much assholery you deserve to have the rest of the world speak your language.” She didn’t seem to appreciate historical humor, probably because her grandpa had taken part in losing the empire in the 40s and 50s and still felt humiliated by it.
Early on in class at university, we watched part of a documentary of some kind where an older gentleman had expressed his will for Britain to reinstate the empire. I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out: “THAT’S JUST CRAZY.” The room went quiet and everyone looked at me as if I had just insulted all of their elderly relatives, who probably also thought the empire should be reinstated. Which is an asinine opinion.
One asinine question I got early from drunk younger gentlemen was: “Why’d you leave Sweden? The girls are so hot!”
“If I wanted to stay in a place just because the girls were pretty, then I’d become a janitor in Hugh Hefner’s mansion, but then I’d be a fucking janitor.” I wouldn’t be a janitor if I had stayed in Sweden, and there’s no reason to shit on janitors, but this was my way of dumbing things down for those with asinine thinking patterns. It turns out there were a lot of them.
On a night out, I saw this girl whose tits were falling out of her dress. Which was wonderful, but what was more fun to look at wasn’t the tits themselves, but her struggle to keep them in her dress without being too obvious with what she was doing. It was like she was stuffing a sleeping bag back into its case, it was a battle she was always going to lose no matter how much she squished and pushed.
The first few weeks in London were fucking awful. It was dark. And not the good kind of dark. The bad kind. The depressing, uncozy kind. I was alone. I almost got hit by a car because they drove on the wrong side of the road. When you live in dorms, you get used to the constant smell of marijuana, probably the only good kind of secondhand smoking. I went to the National Gallery, alone.
My first thought was Jesus Christ, there are way too many pictures of Jesus Christ. It was the perfect place to realize that I hate museums. Later they would remove the no photography rule, but when I was there, they were still enforcing it, or you know, trying to. There was a theme to the paintings that never ended. Guy on cross, guy on cross, guy having his dick ripped off, girl in short dress, one invaluable 800-year-old painting after another.
We each got a university email account where all the important stuff got lost in the huge amount of bullshit. I don’t wanna know about all the work experience available to me. I use my weekends to sleep and masturbate, we all know this. And stop sending me stuff about this bus trip to Bath.
I was experiencing a different kind of loneliness now that I was living in London. There were people everywhere that I could talk to, but that just made me feel lonelier because I felt so different and alienated that I felt like I couldn’t talk to anyone. I was hopeless. Early one morning when I hadn’t slept all night, I wrote this:
Living in student halls is okay but the music is terrible. At 6 in the morning, there will be something on with no rhythm, and the state of that no rhythm has driven me insane over the course of the last few hours. Just shoot me in the face, shoot me straight in the fucking face because the sound of a bullet entering my skull would be a thousand times better than whatever they’re playing. And it’s not music snobbery on my part. I don’t hate the artist they are playing, mostly because I have no idea who it fucking is. I used to walk along a lake surrounded by forests. It was supposed to be dark and I was supposed to be alone. But once you move to a city that’s the size of the entire country you just left, you assume your life is going to change. At least a little bit. But it didn’t. I’m just sad and alone in a different place. Wanking in a different, less comfortable bed, this one is also too short, resulting in my feet hanging off the edge in the cold night air, just like at home. I have to lie diagonally if I want to fit without forcing myself to be in the foster position the entire night. Other people are doing things. Going to clubs and boat parties. I went along to a club with one of the roommates I happened to be paired up with. I went because I felt like I had to do something, but it was fucking depressing. In clubs, people are reduced to their essential human qualities, i.e. how they look, and that’s never good for me. Guys who go to clubs to get laid might just be the worst people on the planet. Definitely worse than Hitler, no doubt about it. Hitler might have ordered a genocide, but at least he didn’t grind up on girls he had never seen before and expected them to fucking enjoy it. That’s like ten times worse than genocide, at the very least.
So, you could say I wasn’t doing great. My mom decided to chime in: “I don’t know about your habits, I assume you’re living in filth.” Thanks, mom. Unwashed sheets and dirty bathrooms were the worst of the filth over the years I studied abroad. There may have been a few cockroaches as well, but not that many.
Being a journalism student can be difficult because many university professors you want to interview for a story decline to speak with you by disregarding their own knowledge. “Oh no, I know nothing about small business economics, my specialty is macroeconomics, you better speak to Laura.”
Yeah well, I emailed Laura but she isn’t answering and all I need is for someone with a fancy title to tell me some things I already know so that I can quote someone quotable in an article without lying. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK? Often enough, the people you really want to speak to won’t speak to you because you’re just a journalism student, which means you have to go down the food chain, where people’s instinctive response is “I don’t know enough about that, you should speak to this Nobel prize winner currently traveling the arctic.” Thanks for that, you inconvenient knobhead.
I went out a fair bit. At least compared to my previous life. I felt like I had to. It kinda went from zero to a hundred overnight, since the increase from nothing becomes fairly obvious because of the fact that it used to be NOTHING. That was my reality, at least before I started studying at Stockholm University. I did go out with my classmates there, and I think I managed to not seem like a complete beginner on the going-out-scene, even though I was.
One or two of my new London friends were always talking about how they would “help me pull” in the club. To me that meant nothing. I just nodded and said something non-committal. I’m not gonna fuck someone just because she has a hole that was made for a good dicking, I foolishly told myself in order to not be disappointed when I didn’t get to partake in any casual sex.
Oh no, please don’t tell me you’re one of those pathetic bastards who won’t fuck someone unless it means something? The voice in the back of my head was at it again. He never quits. I was in for another lengthy scolding.
No, no, no. It’s just... Well... yeah, I tried feebishly.
You emotional bastard!
Well, excuse the fuck outta me for being human.
So you’ll never be able to have one-night stands?
Sure I will. If anyone will ever let me fuck them.
That is a serious issue.
I was being sarcastic.
I got that.
I just have to get over that hump.
The first hump-hump.
The hump of humping for the first time… hump?
So if you insert your penis into a vagina then you’ll forever drown in pussy?
And you’ll totally not just have sex that one time and then die when you’re 43 from trying to jerk off with an iron and burn your dick off?
Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.
By the looks of it, it’s inevitable.
I can just feel myself not wanting to get pussy for the sole purpose of getting pussy.
I can feel you being a pussy.
In theory, sex for the sake of sex is awesome. It makes sense. But when I’m standing there in the bar or in a club and I look into the dead eyes of every girl in a dress that’s barely covering her butthole, it just seems pointless. I don’t want to bang any of them.
Probably because they’re only showing off body and no brains.
Since when am I not turned by girls in short dresses?
Jerking off in front of the laptop is different, that’s an alternate universe. When you see a girl in the real world in a short dress and ten-inch heels, are you attracted to her or do you question her sanity?
Ten-inch heels are physically impossible. But probably the latter.
My point exactly.
Yeah, but I’m not exactly a zombie going “Feed me brains with a side of vagina!”
I’m starting to think you are.
What’s wrong with jerking off?
Nothing, but don’t you just wanna have sex?
All the fucking time.
Then wouldn’t casual sex be awesome?
Then why are you telling me that sex for the sake of sex is pointless?
Since when have I ever been a rational human being?
Good point, rationality, and reasonability are for suckers.
Yeah, why make things easy when you can make everything oh so difficult and infuriating?
You’re such a dick, “Oh look at me I value intelligence over looks.” That’s not really true, is it? It’s just the image you’re trying to give off.
To whom!? Myself? I value looks and intelligence. I won’t cast a second glance or even a first glance at intelligence only. I will cast many glances and probably also a wank at looks only, however on further contact, when looks start talking, if it has the ability to, it will inevitably drive me insane and I will run away pulling my hair out in frustration. It’s the subtle interplay between the two that matters.
So a supermodel with a Ph.D. in economics?
That’s not very subtle, but, yes, that, ideally. Then I could just sit there and be turned on by the smart things she says that I don’t understand while staring at her tits.
Good luck with that.
A few weeks after moving to Britain, I wrote this:
Since I got here, I’ve noticed that British girls drink in two ways. There’s the one that apologizes over and over again for how drunk she is, and then there’s the other one that’s so thrashed that you could cut her arm off and she wouldn’t notice. On my first night out in London, I met both of these kinds of girls. We all live in the same student halls and my first encounter with them was them banging on the door like it was a fucking drug bust. I looked at my flatmates and tried to figure out if they looked like meth heads. They didn’t so we opened the door and it wasn’t the police, it was just two very drunk girls and one heavily set vegetarian. Both of the girls were completely smashed, the first thing one of them did, who was apparently from the southeast, was to apologize for being so drunk in her very posh accent. But she also wanted to make sure I knew she wasn’t drowning in money, that it was only her accent that made her sound posh and not her actually being posh, which she apparently wasn’t. Then we had the girl from the countryside a bit further north, and HOLY SHIT, she had already made her first night in London a very forgettable one. She was a goner. She was beyond saving before we went out and continued to drink when we went out. And when it was time to go home, the job of getting her back home fell on me, because she couldn’t walk. I’ve been around drunk people before, but this was something new. She had no idea she even existed. I was making sure she wouldn’t fall into the street, and she seemed to think my arm around her shoulder meant “Let’s have some fun.” She grabbed my ass, she grabbed my everything. It would’ve been sexual harassment had I not been starved of attention and kind of enjoyed it. She locked herself out of her flat and I brought her back to mine where she laid down on my bed and I called her posh friend to come to pick her up. I ever so barely considered trying to have sex with her, but she was soooooooo drunk it would’ve been beyond rapey so I didn’t bother. She probably would’ve consented but when you’re that drunk consent isn’t really consenting at all. Also, I guess being as inexperienced as I was, I had the ability to look beyond my disappointed libido for that night and make a decision that would be for the best long term. Sadly, a rare quality among young men.
Having to lie to drunk people about not having had sex when you’re 19 is weird. You suddenly become this amazing, but somehow also incredibly anxious, storyteller. “Ah yes, she was 6’7, from Russia, more specifically Krasnodar, her name Svetlana Valishnikov, blonde, huge tits and an ass like a peach, you wouldn’t know her.”
Something that has always bugged me is that everyone seems to think that it’s good to be tall as a guy when it comes to getting girls. Girls like tall guys. Wrong. Girls like guys who are slightly above average height and who also happens to be fit and good-looking. Even if a girl by some miracle likes me and comes up to me in a club, even if she screamed that she wants my dick in her mouth at the top of her lungs, I wouldn’t be able to hear her unless I picked her up and put her mouth to my ear.
And I can’t do that because, on the off chance that she’s not into me, that whole thing suddenly turns into sexual harassment territory. When it comes to looks, I’m about a five on a scale of one to ten. But since I’m tall, it bumps me up to about a six, but since I’m freakishly tall it goes back down to a five and a half. You see, girls like guys’ being tall upon till about 6’4, then it’s just weird. I’m 6’6 and not exactly what you’d call lanky. That’s not a hot guy, that’s a scary giant. I’ve had a lot of ideas about style that have never come to fruition since they tend to be rather provocative and my sheer size is already provocative enough as it is.
I thought about getting my ears pierced, shaving one side of my head, and coloring the rest of my hair red. But then I would be freakishly huge and visually fucked up, and you only get to be one of those. If I was fingering a girl and making out with her at the same time, I would all of a sudden feel my own fingers in my own mouth because they would’ve gone all the way through because my hands are the size of a pair of toilet lids.
Hopefully, her g-spot is in her throat, because then that might actually work instead of just wreak havoc on her vital organs. And the only thing I could do to my face to make it better would be to whiten my teeth, but that wouldn’t benefit me either because that would only highlight the fact that I have the teeth of a midget vampire. Small and pointy.
Years and years later, I went to see a doctor about a possible flu which turned out to just be a virus. After the tests had come back negative, she called me back into her room, asked me to sit down and took my hand in hers, looked at me, and asked “Have you ever been checked for excess growth hormone?” I’ll be honest, I was rather stunned. Never had I considered this a possibility.
“…No,” I said confused.
“I know you’re tall, but you’re not crazy tall, but the extra growth hormone doesn’t necessarily go towards your height. How large are the people in your family?”
“Well my dad is an inch shorter than me, but I weigh about 100 pounds more than him, and I have a cousin who’s 6’9, but I’m pretty sure I’m heavier than him too.”
“Your hands are very large, have they been growing recently?”
“I… don’t think so.”
“How big are your dad’s hands?” I showed her where his fingers ended on mine.
“And you have not had to change shoe sizes recently?”
“No, it’s been the same for a while.” She asked to have a look at my teeth.
“Have the gaps between your teeth been getting bigger?”
“I don’t really know, I haven’t been checking.”
“The gaps could be increasing because your jaw could still be growing.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Yeah, the extra growth can come in surprising places.”
“Well, I do feel like my face is abnormally large.”
“We can test you for it if you want, it’s just a simple blood test.”
“Sure, why not, it can’t hurt to know.”
I strolled out into the lobby and waited for my turn to have my blood drawn. The nurse took three little vials of my blood. One to check the sugar levels in my blood and a second to check the salt level, both in the hope that we could finally figure out why I had felt the need to visit the bathroom ten times a day for years. And a third and final vial to check if I had a mild form of gigantism. An unusually productive visit to the doctor. Unsurprisingly, the results came back negative, as it turns out, I wasn’t related to Chewbacca or Rubeus Hagrid.
I changed the way I dressed. I left behind the baggy jeans and the sweatpants, the hoodies and the t-shirts which were too large. I started to wear big scarves, it was basically like wearing a pillow around your neck, you could fall asleep anywhere. Not that I did, of course, I could barely fall asleep in my bed.
One night I got so drunk I was briefly unconscious. It wasn’t pretty. Bar 77 in Camden had a long happy hour on Sundays to get people to come out at the end of the weekend. Since we didn’t have class till three pm on Mondays, this was perfect timing for us journos to get our drink on. It was 2 for 1 cocktail all night and it might have started perfectly fine and civil with ice cream Oreo cocktails but quickly fell apart and out came the Absinthe.
I was still perfectly okay by this point, giggling with everyone else as our classmate Tim passed out on a table. The problem came when we were going back to some of my classmates’ slightly pricier student halls about a mile from where I lived. André, an annoying yet loveable troublemaker thought it would be a great idea to buy a bottle of vodka to get us through the bus ride home, and I thought it would be a great idea to drink most of it as it was being passed around. If I remember correctly, and it is highly likely I don’t, there were two bottles of Smirnoff being passed around, and I had most of both of them.
I must’ve passed some threshold where I suddenly thought it was okay to hog someone else’s booze. Being already fairly drunk, there was no way this was going to end well. I have some vague memories of what happened next, but they may as well have been placed there by friends telling me the sordid story in the coming days. At one point I couldn’t stand up, let alone walk, or stop throwing up.
Since my size made me impossible to carry, (the solution when smaller friends ended up like this was of course just to carry them to their room, but I was a mile away from home and humongous) my fairly new friends called an ambulance. As I was told in the coming days, the ambulance driver logically asked me who my next of kin was as I obviously looked to be in a state where I couldn’t take care of myself, but he probably also didn’t think that this should be part of his job.
When my response to the question at hand was literally: “What the fuck???” he saw no other alternative than to take me in. As it turns out, as I wasn’t a UK citizen and was too unconscious to pull out my wallet and give them my European Health Insurance Card, they said it could cost me 500 pounds to stay the night. This was of course outrageous and being solid friends, Gioberto, a small Italian man who was into bicycling, and Fisnik, an Albanian Brit who was into soccer and unadvisedly tight button-downs, said fuck it and decided to smuggle me out of there.
I was wearing a hospital gown in the clinic, but I was back in my clothes when I woke up in bed the next morning, leading me to believe that they must have dressed me. An incredible feat since I couldn’t have been very cooperative. At least I was wearing pants, which was a relief. I have vague memories of sitting in what could be a hospital waiting area, then in a cab with a paper bag in front of my face, all three of them, Gioberto, Fisnik, and the cab driver, shouting at me not to throw up in the cab, because that too would be expensive, much like staying in the hospital would have been.
I woke up the next morning with a plastic band around my wrist with my name and a number on it. I kept it on for the day like a badge of honor – I WAS ALIIIIIIIIIIVE, MOTHERFUCKERS. I still made it to politics class at three pm. Although the people sitting next to me were poised to run away because I kept almost hurling. And that concludes the story of how I arrived in London and promptly made a giant fool of myself. Now, onwards!