puking on yuppies

shit party last night full of trendy Berlin people. X and i had saved up a few euros to get loaded and he suggested we try and pull some yuppie girls so when we heard blasting music from a street-level residential apartment somewhere around Rigaerstrasse with a treacherous staircase made of pallets leading to a window, we gave it a knock. you know, one of those? it seems a staple in the Berlin party scene. no flyer, no entrance, no fee, just a window that opens with the right conviction or a short enough skirt. it' a sight to behold: girls - exaggerating their class with the pre-party kerfuffle - extending lashes, smoothing skin, hiding blemishes, fake smells and other effects of pamper paraphernalia - losing their glamour in the act of trying to climb ice-covered, self-made steps in high heels and a handbag. the many minor injuries of birds on stilts make me feel that maybe the world isn't such a sad place after all (if it's not already been made clear, im not a fan of high heels. trainers and boots all the way). anyway, to the slow and drunken entry and the swift and sober exit... either because of having toxin levels in my blood that could kill a small walrus, or because of the sea sickness i experience when drowning in mediocrity feigning as an elite, i realised i was going puke, only minutes after a staggering arrival. early enough, however, to make it to the bar where i made a lot of expensive clothes very cheap with my internal chemicals, fresh with the scent of the doner kebab i had eaten 20 minutes previously. the irony of it is that it was not so much my vomit that caused so much offence, as my ill-matched dress code. indeed, being a late-comer to the party, there was no shortage of poisoned bloodstreams or jolting guts; sparkling arms clutching grotty toilet rims like they're the only objects retaining their gravity. the disgust in people's faces as i pumped my unfinished digestion onto the bar, was at the way i was fashioned. no hairstyle to speak of. ripped jeans. toes sticking out of corroded trainers. dirty coat. i must have stuck out like the pope's morning glory. well, the scene i misdirected could have ended a lot worse were it not saved a few moments post-spew, by the cycling blue lights of the cops and their siren accomplices, which was more reason for the surrounding mess to be in a state of panic than my being sick on surfaces of beer-bartering-services, and so i was able to make an escape without having to face fists. and to think, i have the cops to thank? ...but alas, i conjugate too much, and the sentences in Germany are so very very long.