(no subject)

Since I last updated, I've been reading unhealthy amounts of literary theory (I've been dreaming about the arbitrary nature of language) and drinking too much.

Fridays are usually a total drag: up at dawn to get to uni in time. Where we suffer through Post.col. class (the teacher: thirties otherwise unspecified, woman, bad stutter – fascinating, it is rare –, tall with midriff baring tops, no teaching experience), have a rushed lunch, squeeze into the lift with lecturers we hate and smile sweetly at, pile into a stuffy room on the 8th floor. Two hours 'basic literary analysis 101', I practice sleeping with open eyes. But this Friday we left halfway through the last class, to check out the market stalls at Grünerløkka. Shoe Lounge, my favourite shoe store, promised discounts, and they usually sell dangly crystal earrings at ridiculous prizes. But no such luck, I think we were early. Ingebjørg and I stayed on downtown to ruin our diets, and Anette headed home to prepare her birthday bash.

I had an outfit crisis, looked horrid in everything, and went for a LBD with enough cleavage to keep everyone's eyes glued there. If in doubt: more cleavage. Met Kristine on the bus, timed to arrive fashionably late. But we were the first to arrive. A new experience for me, I'm never early, rarely on time. I wore the YSL's (caged silver platform sandals) for the first time. We drank too much, ate too much, and Kristine stole Bailey's: 'a goood dash, a gooood dash, woops, it's empty. Shut up, everyone. It wasn't me.' Very stealthily done. Then I made friends with Rebecca's Husky, people left saying they had work in the morning, Maren, Maren's cousin, Anette and I made a short detour downtown to dance. We were deserted by Maren + guest, and decided to call it a night. I proceeded to eat something nasty from 7/11, and make friends with some random guy on the buss. He wanted my number, he got a fake story about an art student called Natalie and a number I pieced together. His idea of a pick-up line was that he had a five-year-old.

Kristine and I are very good together. We joke that we're like an old married couple, and on Friday our act was out of this world. I somehow got tricked into giving a spontaneous speech, and since I was wearing killer heels and had had too much to drink, I got Kristine to stand up with me for support. We clung to each other, I spoke about literature, birthdays and we quoted a passage from The Secret History in tandem, announced as an example of the way our lives ought to be. And what we're missing out on by not going to Oxford. It was all very poetic, Kristine reports she walked through half of Oslo in the cheap heels I dumped on her. Which is quite a feat, considering the heels slide backwards every time you put weight on them.

(no subject)

Since I last updated, I've been reading unhealthy amounts of literary theory (I've been dreaming about the arbitrary nature of language) and drinking too much.

Fridays are usually a total drag: up at dawn to get to uni in time. Where we suffer through Post.col. class (the teacher: thirties otherwise unspecified, woman, bad stutter – fascinating, it is rare –, tall with midriff baring tops, no teaching experience), have a rushed lunch, squeeze into the lift with lecturers we hate and smile sweetly at, pile into a stuffy room on the 8th floor. Two hours 'basic literary analysis 101', I practice sleeping with open eyes. But this Friday we left halfway through the last class, to check out the market stalls at Grünerløkka. Shoe Lounge, my favourite shoe store, promised discounts, and they usually sell dangly crystal earrings at ridiculous prizes. But no such luck, I think we were early. Ingebjørg and I stayed on downtown to ruin our diets, and Anette headed home to prepare her birthday bash.

I had an outfit crisis, looked horrid in everything, and went for a LBD with enough cleavage to keep everyone's eyes glued there. If in doubt: more cleavage. Met Kristine on the bus, timed to arrive fashionably late. But we were the first to arrive. A new experience for me, I'm never early, rarely on time. I wore the YSL's (caged silver platform sandals) for the first time. We drank too much, ate too much, and Kristine stole Bailey's: 'a goood dash, a gooood dash, woops, it's empty. Shut up, everyone. It wasn't me.' Very stealthily done. Then I made friends with Rebecca's Husky, people left saying they had work in the morning, Maren, Maren's cousin, Anette and I made a short detour downtown to dance. We were deserted by Maren + guest, and decided to call it a night. I proceeded to eat something nasty from 7/11, and make friends with some random guy on the buss. He wanted my number, he got a fake story about an art student called Natalie and a number I pieced together. His idea of a pick-up line was that he had a five-year-old.

Kristine and I are very good together. We joke that we're like an old married couple, and on Friday our act was out of this world. I somehow got tricked into giving a spontaneous speech, and since I was wearing killer heels and had had too much to drink, I got Kristine to stand up with me for support. We clung to each other, I spoke about literature, birthdays and we quoted a passage from The Secret History in tandem, announced as an example of the way our lives ought to be. And what we're missing out on by not going to Oxford. It was all very poetic, Kristine reports she walked through half of Oslo in the cheap heels I dumped on her. Which is quite a feat, considering the heels slide backwards every time you put weight on them.