Praise be, Friday night passed without so much as a hint of disaster anywhere. Ended up just having a really good time, despite having to shake off some of our society's more disturbed members who seemed hellbent on dancing at Mia's 5 digit disco at the end of the night. I think I may have been right on the money about the scent of blood. My outrageously tempting offers that night ranged from having someone beg to be allowed to lick my manicure, to someone else coming up with unspeakable places where he would like to park his tounge for awhile. The latter offer came from a guy who was so ridiculously hot, too that I actually managed to force myself to listen to the vile coming out of his mouth for 10 minutes. I kept thinking "Ok, he's gonna stop at any moment now and turn into a normal person.... Ok I really think it's going to happen any moment now..... I really think he's going to say he's just kidding very soon.... very soon.... any moment now". But by the time his tounge snuck into my ear as I turned my head towards the dancefloor for the briefest of moments, the dry heaves were inevitable and Gorgeous Porgeous was sent on his merry way, leaving me to another night of menage a'moi. Such a shame, too. Such a g-darn shame.

The next outing I know of will be Febuary 4th, when I go boogie down with my dear bosom buds, the Americans. In some drunken frenzy I decided that I was going to write an article for this magazine, which would immediately lead to my instant Carrie Bradshaw-ification, only to discover I had no ideas as to what to write about. Well, I figured, worst comes to worst... there's always making fun of Americans. The ever popular pasttime of all noble Europeans.

Originally I had meant to write about something else, but the bastard missionaries have betrayed me, broken my heart, killed my spirit and stomped on my hopes and dreams. I had meant to tag along with them for a day and write about my experiences as a pseudo-missionary in Reykjavik, but when it got down to the nitty gritty the boys in suits weren't too keen on the idea. I can't remember the official explanation I got from them, but I'm thinking it has something to do with maintaining some sort of image that I would inevitably destroy. Well FINE! They have left me no choice, once I get some candid shots of them, I'm just going to make up some horrible story and do an exposé on them. "Missionaries: Perverts and rapists on the streets of Reykjavik!" How do you like me now, mothasuckas?!?

Ahem. So anyway.

Speaking of missionaries... I was invited to the apartment of the two staying here in good ole Kef for a friendly chat the other day. During the aforementioned friendly chat however, my Nosey Parker eyes stumbled upon a board they have on the wall where they apparently catagorize the people involved with the church in the area. I saw my name listed under the header of "Friendship". Now if that's not a moment that makes you go "hmm". Having a friendly chat with two people who have your name on the wall, under what might as well read "lets pretend to be friends with these people for our ulterior motives". Lovely. It's always so nice to see that there's nothing fake about the church, it's so real. I love that. Fills me with God's love all over again.

And that, my dear readers, is how Joan Jett blew out the candle without breathing.