Moarnings

Note to self, in Heidelberg, do not actively go up to the people collecting bottles for pfand. They are like dogs and will then proceed to follow you throughout the rest of the day. And throwing an invisible ball in the opposite direction will only distract them three times.

Throughout the course of this week, I have rewritten an entire hausarbeit, to what standard or quality, I can only imagine. I have seen the yankee celebration of their own independence, an event that defies all logical understanding, most specifically in the most heterosexual of rainbow pinatas, drunken twister and cock block tattoos. And I’ve started treading the Shakespearean boards. Two weeks ago, my Erasmus life was very different. You rarely tend to remember the nights you spend indoors doing nothing, and with that mindset, my own bed may have only been slept in about 3 times this fortnight. It’s about the nights out, and the memories you think you can remember.

Adventures are like one night stands, they’re only good when you don’t know when they’re coming. Change is grand, assuming nothing is left behind and this is the month of change. A final drink goodbye with Matt has solidified a future of Cardiff visits, a loss of evenings under the guise of theatre and an alteration of mindset has proven just how intricately one can be altered through Erasmus’ fidgeting fingers.

I also got called an “unbritish posh twat” by an ex-patriot Brit, who didn’t know what the Rolling Stones were. Fokkin glass ’em.

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