Tour des chambres is quite literally a tour of rooms. It is the best kind of dorm party–where people in your dorm decorate their rooms a certain theme, you have a theme-related game, and you are served a welcome drink. You go room to room, and you end up drunk as shit. It is très amusante.
I share a kitchen with 17 people, and 15 of us were participating this year, so we split up into pairs and had 7 themed rooms, and one game/welcome drink in the kitchen. The themes were:
0) Beer memory game in the kitchen
1) Wine-tasting in France
2) Nude sketch/croquis class in France
3) Life of Pi directing and reenactment
4) Camping under the stars (le mine)
5) Drinking in the dark
6) Danish New Years Eve
7) Music and hookah lounge
Learnt a lot of random shit about wine/realized how unsophisticated I am when it comes to wine; did not expect to see penis but did. Plus I won best nude sketch and that’s saying a lot about my hidden talents; made my flatmate eat cat food and gnaw on my other’s flatmate’s neck (the game was rewriting scenes from Life of Pi, and my team did it justly); watched my flatmates play the North American gem that is Chubby Bunny. One of my flatmates had to spit out her mouthful of marshmallows, and that mouthful floated in my toilet for about a week after; drank in the dark because it soo unheard of; Danish New Years Eve is the cutest thing ever, and you get to eat cake with adorable Danish flags everywhere; by the time we go to the music and hookah lounge, I was so drunk that I knocked over my flatmate’s hookah, and there was ash everywhere… Thank God my flatmates are Danish, and are very calm about these sorts of things.
The Beginning Of My Demise
Fast forward to the after party, and I’ve fallen and twisted my ankle. It wasn’t as though I was running, doing anything remotely athletic, or even wearing heels for that matter. I was simply trying to sit down next to my flatmate, and I just toppled over and rolled my ankle like a complete loser.
After having to be carried, then lots of complaining in bed while three of my flatmates are drunkenly laughing and trying to soothe me… I wake up the next morning, and the pain is ridiculous. My foot looks ridiculous. It’s ballooned to about 3x the size of my right foot, and it’s in the sickliest shades of purple and blue. Groce. I’m contemplating whether or not to post a photo here because it might really offend some viewers. I spend the rest of the day in the fort–drinking tea, listening to acoustic One Direction covers, and reading Pride and Prejudice.
Everyone’s telling me to go to hospital, and I’m just shrugging it off like, “Don’t be silly.” Because, as I said, I’m always in the mindset that everything’s going to be okay. Plus I fucking hate hospitals. There’s something about the colour of their walls that’s so… sterile. Like a starchy yellow colour that forever needs to be starchy and yellowed. And the smell of it all. I hate it. I’m starting to think that I hate institutions.
To The Hospital We Go
I finally cave. I plan to call my doctor on Monday, but things work differently in Denmark. Family doctors don’t have x-rays on hand, no real medical equipment or anything. My Danish girlfriend and my Danish flatmates tell me that I need to go the ER. The E-fucking-R. Fuck me.
In Denmark, you have to call before you go to the ER. Yeah. Yeeeeeah. Because of free healthcare, people had previously been showing up at the ER with paper cuts (this is a dramatization) and so, they developed a system where you have to call in before making a visit to your local emergency room. You have to call in, explain to the dispatcher what your emergency is, and if the dispatcher supposes your emergency worthy, then you may go to the ER.
My flatmate calls in Danish for me, and by the end of the call, the dispatcher goes, “She twisted it on Friday night? As long as she doesn’t come in smelling like Bacardi.”
Blah blah blah. 2 hours of waiting, 2 doctors, more questions regarding my level of sobriety on Friday night, and an x-ray later… I find out that I have no broken bones. Thank the Lord Holy Jesus, because my foot looked it had been dipped in ink for the two days, the swelling had not gone down whatsoever, and I could barely walk. It’s just badly sprained.
My medical file reads: “Friday, twisted ankle, drunk.”
And my first visit to a foreign hospital has been completed. Woooohoooo, motherfucker!
I have a One Direction Erection–the huge, throbbing, and pulsating with passion kind. (A One Direction Infection is for the little ones.. big girls get the 1D Erection.)
I’m not going to go into the nitty gritty details of my fangirl obsession because 1) it’s annoying 2) it’s only slightly embarrassing that I stalked a group of five boys the same age as my brother 3) it would probably be the longest post of my life.
The concert was AMAZE. I have been to a handful of concerts, but it’s never been an artist I absolutely LOVE. Y’all already know I know 99.5% of their songs, and to be able to sing those songs in unison with a stadium chock full of people is BEYOND the beyond.
I can only imagine how it feels for them to stare back at the audience, listening to them sing along to every word they sing back..
These are my beautiful friends who came with. After watching me be near tears when I was without a ticket, and THEN seeing my full fangirl form before/during/after the concert–I am SO grateful (and astonished) they are still my friends. I was pretty much going through a multi-level meltdown the entire time the band was in the same city as me.
I’ve had so much backlash for being a fan of a Top 40’s boyband, but freal–sit down with me and I will tell you whatsup with One Direction…
Also they were giving out ice cream after the concert–it’s like they KNEW I was coming.
I may or may not have been double-fisting free ice cream.
And obvi, if you are friends with me, we got drunk after the concert and met a bunch of crazy people. We ended up rubbing this huge brown guy’s belly, meeting someone named Atilla [The Hun], and utilizing the Boris Theory for the first time. Um.. also, this guy introduced himself to me as Asshole, and said he’d give us his mardi gras beads if we flashed him–I am hoping (but not really) that he did not get beat up that night.
This is us post-bellyrubbing, but pre-dancing with two gay roommates.
And here is my fav member of the band being cute AF:
I’d like to think that Niall’s smile during his acoustic solo in “Little Things” was indeed in response to my “I LOVE YOU NIALL! MARRY ME!”
I should add that I wrote a paper on One Direction for one of my classes. And BOOM goes the dynamite, because I got an A-! One Direction always wins, y’all.