We left the shopping centre round 5 o’clock and then went on this boat to have dinner. The boat wasn’t a five-star one, but it’s not like I expected a five-star boat anyway. This time the sauer kraut tasted like horseradish. I don’t know what is up with the fucking salad there. We returned to the hotel round 7.
I did my makeup as well as I could (and felt like doing), showered, slipped on a pair of black skinny jeans and a velour-embroidered black shirt, put on my new necklace and sprayed some perfume on my neck. Our group was to meet up at the lobby at 11, and then head to the bus. The bus took us to Misch Masch (I think that’s how you spell it), a night club reserved for students. It took us almost half an hour to get in because the crowd was so big. I set a limit for myself at 150 korunas and promised myself I wouldn’t spend more than that.
Maggie was wearing a short spring dress with chucks. Violet was wearing some plain shirt, black shoes, a knit hat, and a pair of beige trousers. She was also carrying a rucksack on her back. A fucking RUCKSACK. For a night out at the club. As though her saying “Is there no bread here…? Oh, never mind, I’ve got some,” and reaching her hand into her rucksack at the restaurant a few hours earlier hadn’t been enough for me to almost suffer a fucking stroke. Luckily, what she had taken out was just a bagel, not an actual loaf of bread. But with what she’s like it sure could have been. God, it could’ve been. Layla who thinks dancing to mainstream things like Shape Of You would make people think she isn’t being true to her emoism, stayed in the lobby. Meanwhile, Maggie and I were at the bar ordering rum mixed with coke. The drink cost 100 korunas, and at this point, I had canceled the money-limit thing in my head. The barista handed us the drinks, and we headed to the dance floor. When we were sipping our mojitos, Ice Ice Baby came on and I knew every word off by heart. Some people looked in confusion and disgust, others looked in awe.
At my third, and last drink, a shot of Malibu, this boy with huge muscles (for a 17-year-old at least) approached me. He asked me where I was from and such things. His name was Jacob. We made a toast (to something, who the fuck knows). Soon, he asked if he could buy me a drink. I said, “Hah, no thanks, I’m not trying to get completely wasted (a lie).” He said it didn’t have to be alcohol. Then I said, “Maybe later”, to which he replied , “Lemme know.” I ended up only having a sip of something that he thought was coke with scotch.
As time passed, more and more good songs came on including Wannabe. When it started, Leonardo (the guy who I told two years ago that he was hot through a cellphone speaker when I was severely intoxicated) turned to me and screamed, “This is my fucking jam!”. That song was the death of my vocal chords because I shouted every word at every person dancing with/near me. Jacob, who besides his muscular arms had a pair of nice brown eyes and a fuckboy haircut, kept, sort of, following me around the dance floor. It was annoying, and just a little bit creepy. At last, he came up to me and said: “Listen, sorry to interrupt, but, have you got a boyfriend.” I laughed in a very fake way and, putting my arm around Maggie’s neck said, “Actually, I’ve got a girlfriend. Yeah.” He made a weird face. “I mean, isn’t it obvious?”, I said. “Oh. I’m gonna go then.” The look in his eyes was somewhere between scared, discouraged and perplexed. I wanted to shout, “Was nice to meet you,” but he had already escaped to the other side of the dance floor.