Dear Readers,

I have had a revelation this weekend.

It all started on Friday when Rad and made plans to bake some brownies. We went to the local grocery store to buy ingredients. We ended up buying a mix, something i would never do back home where i have a fully stocked kitchen which includes cooking implements.

Anyway I suggested to Rad that we make a drinking game out of our baking. She thought it sounded like a good idea so we started spit balling rules.

I came up with one rule, "every time anything is measured we both have to take a shot."

Rad's rule was a bit more direct, "Anytime we know what we're doing we have to take a shot."

Needless to say, we got shitfaced drunk.

And we videotaped the whole thing.

I'll get around to editing that later, it is definitely hilariously embarrassing and too great to keep from the world.

I skyped at some point towards the end of the night with my friends back at Pratt who convinced me to write a blog post in my inebriated state. They always do that and I always listen. When will I learn?

And that is how the wonderfully eloquent and classy blog post under this one came to be.

Almost everything in that post is true, I do miss NYC and my friends there, Radhika is pretty cool and men who are immature do in fact suck, but one thing that sober Chelsea does not agree with is the high caliber and favorable passion with which drunk Chelsea describes Irish Whiskey.

That's a brand by the way, in fact the cheapest brand of whiskey that Rad and I could find.

I'd like to go on record right now saying that it does not rock. In fact part of me is convinced it's the devil. 

Moving onto Saturday, I awoke with a hangover so vicious I wanted nothing more than for my face to melt off. Rad had blacked out most of the evening, and didn't even have a hangover. Lucky girl.

I went home, got into my bed and didn't get out of it all day.

What was particularly funny was when I got home at around 1pm, my roommate was in bed and I asked her how she was, to which she replied, "hungover".

She informed me that her and two of her friends had split a liter of vodka. So our room that day was very quiet and dark, the lights were never turned on and the blinds remained closed all day.

That is until the late evening, when Manon popped out of bed and started getting ready to go out. She asked me if i was staying in to which I replied, "Yes. Are you going out?"

Then she started to explain her "hair of the dog" theory, which, just thinking about, made me gag. I told her she was crazy and she said I was crazy and then I told her to have a goodnight and she left.

I went to sleep at around 2/3 ish and awoke this morning (Sunday) with one hell of a headache. I had forgotten how much my body hates alcohol. Hangover round two? Yes.

So now I can explain my revelation dear readers. I have decided to only drink once a week while here, and when I do drink, to do so in moderation. I can't think about alcohol right now without feeling like throwing up, so I have no idea how soon the next drinking night will be, but one thing I am sure of is that there will be no more drunk blog posts. That's what facebook status updates are for.

I am not making any promises, as I've learned drunk Chelsea tends to have a mind of her own, but i would prefer this blog be about Ireland, and not a running list of Mexican things that I think are cool like nachos and Jenny's mom.

I don't even eat nachos.

this blog goes ut to ana and jenny

i loveee yiudx guya aooo much,


yourw WESOEM



sooooo I'm very dsrunk right now witrhf radkhika


and i widsh i wads in nyc withg you bitches

you rock

donrtt let anyone tell uo otherwise


but i love rad

shess ONE COOLL bitchew


and just so you gy ss knokns nachos mexixxcans and anaa rock  also jennys mom.


you know what else rocks? irish hwhi cskley?

ywes whiskey

kiscks ass


an dd uyo know who sucjs

bouys

who aewnrenyt men.


i loveyiou gusy

This post is all over the place.

So for those of you who haven't heard me complaining about this yet, Dublin is cold. When we're lucky it's a non-windy 50F. More frequently, however, it's a brisk, wet 3C, which is European for 37F.


Needless to say I've been wearing layers.

I wish I could say so much for the locals, but nope, Dublin girls run around in next to nothing. Their heaviest article is typically their 6" pumps.

Usually they walk around in see-through leggings and short shirts, yeah they don't leave much to the imagination.

I've seen a lot of crazy outfits, from backless "dresses" (is there a minimum requirement of fabric to qualify as a dress?) to fur coats paired with short shorts (more on the fur thing later). But the worst observance came last week when Rad and I were downtown pub hopping and we spotted a young woman in her underwear.

Yes, her underwear.


She was with a group of friends, most likely heading to a club, and although they were all scantily clad, the rest of them had remembered to put pants on.


Radhika and I did a double take, and didn't do much to hide our shock. If these people had been more observant not only would they have heard our blunt "are you fucking kidding me?" but also, maybe, just maybe, they would've reminded pantsless-Patty not to leave the house half naked in 40F weather.

Here's hoping she hasn't caught pneumonia or spread something else.


Dubliners also love fur. They wear sooooo much of it. Fake or real, I can't tell (I've never been much of a fur connoisseur) but it's definitely tacky. It's like Dublin is full of Cruella Devils. But it's not always fur coats on old ladies, which i think is a fairly normal sight, no it's like weird fur collars/dickeys and fur vests and shorts.

It's unsightly. We've got ourselves quite a hairy situation here in Dublin.


(SEE WHAT I DID THERE?)



I'm over the whole Dublin style debacle. Onto a European eccentricity, winking.


Yeah they wink a lot over here. Don't they know winking is reserved for old people, shenanigans, and perverts?


Maybe that's just in America, because seriously I've been winked at more in the last month than I ever was in my whole life back in the states.


I can't explain it but it's unnervingly frequent.

I remember one time when I was little at Disneyland, I'm guessing 4 ish, this old woman passed by me and winked.

I remember feeling uncomfortable, but knowing that she was old and sometimes old people make you uncomfortable and you just have to act like they aren't freaking you out.

I was very wise for my age.


Point of that story is that babies instinctively don't like being winked at, so winking must be associated with something awful and it's ingrained in us to not like it because, I can only imagine, it was something horrifying to our ancestors.



Bottom line: winking is an uncomfortable gesture that is forgivable when geriatrics are involved, expected from creepy guys with no game and hilarious when tomfoolery is afoot.

Somebody needs to tell Europeans.



So I asked a few people for topic suggestions for this blog, by a few people i mean my brother and Sarina.

Sarina said on facebook chat,


"Hmmmmm.

Idk.

but you should totally get a tat of a 4 leaf clover while your over there. it would be cute and have meaning."


I was totally tempted by the deep meaning that tat would definitely have, but in the end I've decided against it.


My Brother Zak told me to write this blog post because, "Idle hands are the devil's playthings."



He didn't have any suggestions though as far as topics go.


But that's okay, I seem to do a good enough job ranting about the everyday to sustain some sort of interest.

I am going on some trips this month so there will definitely be some picture posts coming soon.


Goodnight dear readers, stay warm, fur free, blinking, meaningfully tatted and busy in the name of Jesus.


-Chelsea