Oh, The Stressure!

So. Hi.

I'm sorry, I'm under a lot of stressure. Sorry, I mean pressure... Stress... Stressure... What ever!

Life is a bit stressed at the moment. Mostly because of all the assignments our teachers our shoving down our throats. But another (slightly more fun) things is adding to my sky-rocketing stress level:

V A L    T H O R E N S !

Val Thorens is a skiing town in the French Alpes, that many local gymnasiums visit annually. Danish students flock the town, arriving by the bus-load; all filled with home-work exhausted, half-drunk, over tired, reckless and party-starved teens; all ready to ski down slopes in varying degrees of insanity, perform their standard binge-drinking at the frenchs discos, take over half of the city's hotels, upset the Gens D'armes, and generally have a good time. And this year, I'll be going with my best girlies from Aurehøj. So.......... Yaaaayyyy.....

No, but seriously. Going to Val Thorens with your gymnasium is supposed to be really fun. It's a great week of skiing with your friends, fending for yourself in a shitty appartment, partying, undeniably drinking, perhaps speaking a bit of french, playing around in the snow and having fun. Besides, I'm staying in an appartment with 5 of the sweetest, funniest, and craziest girls I know. It'll be great. And since it's expensive as hell, I will make myself hit the slopes and ski every day. 

Ooooooohhhhhh, I'm so excited!

The ski vacation is in week 7; which means that we leave this Friday morning at 10am. Which leaves me totally stressed. Naturally. I really can't fathom how I'll ever manage to pack. Let alone figure out what I should be bringing.

Which brings me to my next predicament:

I haven't started packing yet. I leave Friday morning. I'm busy all day tomorrow. And most of Thursday. And I haven't. Begun. Packing. How the fuck in the name of fucking fuck...

But no panick. I have an idea of what to pack. Sort of. I mean... A general idea. Okay, an estimate. A hint of an estimate. A feeling. Good vibes?

Everthing has to fit in one soft suitcase, that weighs under 20 kilos. This seemed like a lot at first, but then I started thinking...

Our ski company is throwing a huge theme party when we get to France. And what's the theme? Costume ball. And, in their words: "no costume is too cheezy or ridiculous". Well, gee. Thanks. So.... Now I only have to pack ski clothes (ski jacket, ski pants, ski underwear, ski sweaters, ski goggles, ski helmet, and ski mittens = not space for that much else), big winter boots, normal clothes and shoes, party clothes and shoes, cosmetics and medicine and all kinds of weird practical stuff, and many other things as well. And, oh yeah, to top it all off: a big-ass costume as well.

HOW THE FUCK AM I GOING TO FIT ANYTHING IN MY SUITCASE?

Okay, okay, deep breaths. So it's probably not as bad as I'm making it out to be. Probably. Maybe.

I should be coming up with packing lists. Being practical and wise. But instead, I procrastinate. Typical teenage predicament, I suppose.

Anyway, my roomies and I came up with a bunch of super duper suggestions for costumes. Enjoy.

G O O D    P A C K I N G    V I B E S

"This casually stylish condom dress has been a huge hit this winter..."

...... Nice.

"Are you allowed to eat babies, if they're dressed as tacos?" asked a wise friend of mine.

There are no words. There simply are no words to describe this. I just.... Agh...!

So after that slightly irrelevant and completely stupid conclusion, I should get back to my stressuring.

Thanks for listening,

I Am Roseberry.



The Circle Of Partying.

So. Hi.

Do you ever feel that the stages in your weekly partying are slightly repetitive? Can you never shake the feeling that once you have completed one night of hitting the town, it reminds you in striking detail of the last time you went out with your friends, and the last, and the last? Sure, the details are what distinguish the nights from each other. But seriously. Are we really re-living the same evening over and over again? Let's see if you can recognize some of these stages...

Spleen United Suburbia

T H E    C I R C L E    O F    P A R T Y I N G

I T    A L L    S T A R T S    W I T H    A    S T O M A C H   F L I P

As weekend rolls around the corner, you decide to go out.

W H I C H    I S    T H E N    F O L L O W E D    B Y    A    G R E A T    I D E A

Stupid friend 1: "Man, we're gonna go wild tonight!"

Stupid friend 2: "Yeaah!"

Stupid friend 3: "We'zz gonna get druuunk, bitchezz!!"

T H E N    C O M E S    T H E    W A R M - U P

Where you gather the best of friends, drink a whole lotta alcohol, and put on your finest of party get-ups.

Y O U    T H E N    P R O C E E D    T O    T H E    A C T U A L    P A R T Y

Where you decidedly get even more drunk, and suddenly become the social butterfly of the night.

S U D D E N L Y    E V E R Y T H I N G    I S    F U N    A N D    B E A U T I F U L

You are cool, you are confident, you are having fun, and you are an EXCELLENT dancer.

(You are drunk, you are drunk, you are drunk, and you are drunkety-drunk).

B U T    T H E N    C O M E S    T H E    T U R N I N G    P O I N T !

Either you or one of your friends is too drunk; you have been rejected by the cute guy or girl at the bar; everything is spinning and confusing and dark and suddenly not so fun anymore. You then decide that drowning your sorrows in alcohol is a great idea!

W H A T    F O L L O W S    I S    I N E V I T A B L E . . .

Lights on, music off, going home, no more party, you're still drunk, but have to get yourself home. At this stage you are either  A) alone, crying over something that you can't quite remember, but you know it's very important, or B) With all your friends, laughing and toasting and yelling in the train or cab home, stumbling around in the crisp night air.

Y O U    T H R O W    Y O U R S E L F    I N T O    B E D

Finally arriving home with your friends or alone, and positively throwing yourself into bed (or other various experimental places of sleeping), falling a sleep instantly.

A N D    T H E    M O R N I N G    A F T E R . . .

The next thing you remember, you're in your bed, lying sprawled all over the sheets, clothes strewn pell-mell everywhere, perhaps a bit of vomit here and there, a pounding in your head, and an urge to run to the bathroom.

 J U S T    A S    Y O U    T H I N K    Y O U ' R E    A B O U T    T O    D I E

You finish puking. You get some sleep. You plant yourself in front of the TV, never to move again.

A N D    W H E N    Y O U    F E E L    U P    F O R    I T

You get the hangover munchies.

Y O U    C A L L    F O R    B A C K - U P

Your best friends are only a phonecall away, and soon you can have someone to share your miserable hangover with. Laughing and groaning and gigglingly discussing the drama of the previous night, gossipping and finding pictures of yourself on the internet, and eating through the stash of food in your house.

Y O U    D E C I D E    T O    G O    O U T    L A T E R

Suddenly, the thought of going out doesn't seem so bad; you're young, you're alive, and it's the weekend. So you decide to hit the town! Then comes the stomach-flip, and we are back to the beginning!

U L T I M A T E L Y ,    Y O U    A R E    C O N V I N C E D    T H A T    I T    W A S

F U N    E N O U G H    T O    D O    I T    A L L    A G A I N !

After talking with your friends, reliving the previous night, your hangover doesn't matter. Neither does the loss of your keys, phone, purse or bike. It doesn't matter that you did things you will regret. Because you had fun, and you're young, and your stupid. And you will repeat the glory and mistakes of the previous night many times over. And what really matters isn't that your nights are repetitive; it's the individual nights and mistakes and thoughts and laughs and dances and flirts and memories, that will last you a lifetime.

And thus, the circle is completed!

Thanks for listening,

I Am Roseberry.