Remember when I told you last Saturday of my FOMO and whether I should go out or not? Well, from the blog post it looked as if I would be staying in, sip tea and go to bed early, right? Actually, it turned out to be quite a wild night which ended with me getting seriously hurt - physically and emotionally.
But let's start at the beginning.
Shortly after I had uploaded aforementioned post, my neighbours decided to throw the party of the millennium. Balkan music oozed through the walls and started to dictate my heartbeat and I decided it was a sign. Why not go out and share the Saturday night euphoria? Why not have a drink? So I dressed up and joined my man and his friends in smoker's bar (a) yes, we still have them in Austria and b) that is how eager I was to prove I could be something else than a spoilsport). I met man's friend's girlfriend who turned out to be a pleasant and sweet girl and I hope to see her soon again.
We drank, we chatted and I started a very nice conversation with a guy who is training to be a teacher (I know, I rolled my eyes inwardly at first, too, but he turned out to be really cool). Meanwhile, my man was getting more and more wasted and because I was preoccupied with flattering a guy with my wit and intelligence (and my English skills, god, I was such a show-off - every accent existent in the English language was covered by me during our conversation), I didn't realise he got out of control.
Everything was sweet and easy and eventually we moved on to another bar which is, sugarcoated, utterly terrible. In Innsbruck there isn't much space, I get it, but this bar was just a long hose with a bar. You were permanently pushed aside by rude people wanting to get in or out and you couldn't really move to the, admittedly cool, music. It came as it had to come, but, frankly, it came much worse than I had thought. Since setting one foot in that bar, I knew someone would step on my toe, but actually some jerk tossed over a metal chair whose edge landed on my toes. Screaming in pain, I ran to the bathroom, where I cried a little (no one else seemed to have noticed I had gone - the story of my life) and when I returned, my man was only swaying from one side to the other anymore, his eyes unfocused. Additionally to my presumably broken toe, I could carry him home now, thank you very much.
I struggled to the taxi and we got home - only to realise that our stupid neighbours hadn't finished partying yet, despite the fact that it was four in the morning.
Incensed, I sent my man to bed and knocked fiercely on their door. What you should know, I don't like trouble or conflict, so me knocking at a neighbour's door to complain should indicate how angry I was.
But now comes the best bit: this stupid woman opening the door actually justified their party by saying it was her son's birthday party. Her son is FUCKING TWO!
Unsure whether to call the police or the authorities, I settled for the first and went back inside my flat - only to find my man passed out on the bed.
Tear-stained and with pounding toe, I eventually called my sister and yelped into the phone she must come and pick me up (she lives like half an hour with the car away). Now hysterically heaving, I tried to explain what had happened and soon my sister agreed to get me ASAP. I ran down (the police was arguing with the neighbours in the meantime) and was waiting for my sister on the kerb, wailing and weeping like a baby - very graceful.
On the next day, everything was calmer and better and my man and I made up. My toe, by the way, wasn't broken but seriously bruised and is healing now, too.
So what have we learnt from this? If you settle for tea on a Saturday night, better stick to it - or generally, leave your apartment as rarely as possible. AND, don't go over to your neighbours, just call the police, because ever since the incident I have been dreading to leave my flat in case she is there. So, even if being this anonymous person calling the cops is really shitty and cowardly, it is better than an awkward encounter in the elevator with a woman who has the intelligence of a fly (no, that is mean, flies can do better) and the figure of a sumo hating your guts.
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