I am currently brain numbingly, mouth-filling-with-drool tired. If someone were to draw me right now, I would probably look like some crushed soul being sucked down into the void of hell. Why am I online, you ask? I had meant to see if the boyfriend was online so I could talk to him and try not to be a snappy bitch to him for once, but alas, he was not. I don't really do the online conversation thing very well-- I'm always looking at 27 other windows, so I'm already distracted, and when that is combined with my sarky comments and my habit of becoming horrendously defensive / attacking people for really unjustified things if I happen to be in less than the peachiest of moods, the conversations don't exactly tend to be overly condusive to romance of any sort. Not that virtual conversation brings up any particular desires to be lovey dovey anyway. In me at least. Power to people who can do that kind of stuff, but emoting into a screen is insanely hard. I suppose I am doing this in a way here, but it's not really emoting in a sense that involves another person, beyond the faceless audience. When it's someone I know and want to interact with, then I just end up being bored or feeling slightly fake when trying to really pretend an interest in what it is that is being said to me in the little blinking box. I've had some great online conversations, and I'm not going to stop doing it, really, but it certainly is not my favourite means of communication. As I think I have iterated 37 times in this train of thought.
Why so tired, you ask?
Well, here in Russia, American Independance Day means nothing. They speet
on the stupeed Americans with all their fireworks and merriment and carousing. Not that Russians don't carouse-- on the contrary, Prom Night (yes yes, I will eventually explain what that is) definitely shows that they know how to get down. As does every night, pretty much. The group here from Kansas, however, definitely decided they wanted to have their fab 4th celebration, even if it had to be on the third. Off to the beach they trooped, and as an Offical Hanger-Oner, I got a free train ticket and was taken along.
Problem was, yesterday was a Big Day. Or rather, it was supposed to be a very chill day that somehow became ridiculous, as has been most of this weekend, once again, starting Thursday. My friend Dave had his birthday at some point, which turned into a three day celebration somehow, starting Thursday night at City Bar, where they give you a liter of beer for 70 rubles (about $2.50, I think... rather overpriced, if I do say so myself.) That was a good time for a while-- there was merriment and spastic dancing and lots of inappropriate language on the part of this random 17 year old who decided he was a big kid, as seen by his drunkeness and his surreptitious smoking of all my cigarettes (And yes... he doesn't smoke. By the way, "social smokers", it's really just not cool when you do that. They cost money. A couple every once in a while I will grant you without a hint of protest, but when you start matching me chainsmoke for chainsmoke over the course of the night, just buy your own bloody pack. Or buy me a drink, so I'm not so angry when I run out and have to buy overpriced ones at the bar.
) Unfortunately, the night ended with vomit on the floor of the bar (not mine, thank heavens... not even close) which made me realise that it's just not normal that American college students think it's perfectly ok to drink to the point where you can't even casually sneak off to the bathroom if the need arises to violently empty your guts. As I took off and sprinted to Nevsky, more prodded by the fact of the metro closing at 12:30 (!) than the puddle on the floor, I felt the top of my bag flapping. "This could be a bad thing," I thought to myself. "Perhaps, something might fall out. Something important."
"Nope," said my inner idiot. "Couldn't happen. I lead a charmed existence." I ran into the metro, took out the token from my pocket, rode to Primorskaya, and, on attaining the dorm and hearing the doors lock behind me, I discovered that I had no wallet.
Contents: 500 rubles (17 dollars?), my ISIC card with the only good picture of me ever to be found on a piece of documentation (boo), assorted crap, and my ATM/credit card.
That's the one that really sucks to lose. I don't know if I'll be able to get into my bank account before September, and... it's fourth of July weekend in the US. Frantic emails to the 'rents ensue, and all should be taken care of.
Pain in the ass though.
So anyway, Friday rolls around and Alex is most definitely not in the sassiest of moods. Not that I often am in any sort of mood resembling sassy.
--[By the way, it's really embarassing when you have to contort yourself strangely to crack your back and then you notice that the cute boy sitting next to you is looking at you like you are an exhibit from the Kunstkamer.]--
In class we bid farewell to our two mildmannered Canadian classmates, who are bound for Toronto and Irkutsk respectively. Pierre was a great loss-- his Quebecois accent brought many a supressed laugh to my shoulders. Marc-- was nice. Most guys named Marc tend to be. The final c gives them a softer edge. Later, I went to the ballet, which was ok, and then out to town with the Kansans, post a break wherein I was accidentally quite bitchy to my boyfriend over AIM. We found ourselves at the Ego Cafe. I celebrated my financial problems with an appropriately overpriced mimosa. The sleazy German who ran the place rubbed his hands together with glee when he estimated how much more he could squeeze out of us poor students, luring us in with chill ambiance and such. Another Metro sprint home, this time clutching my purse like it was the One Ring. Precioussss...
Saturday was what I was originally planning on talking about, but... the KGB lady again. Do zavtra.