The Boy Who Wanted To Be a Rock Star

When the book came at last, I was no longer interested. Antony Burgess, fruity academic style. I couldn't work out what he was trying to tell me except that he knew lots of words. I did not expect I'd see the girl anymore. Matse had apparently forgotten her existence. And what was he supposed to do, write sonnets to sing his despair that a bar pickup didn't work out?

And then, of course, I saw her again.

I had gone alone to the Norwegian's Party in Mannheim. It is usually an overly cheerful affair, dresscode is reindeer pullover, talk is about beer (lots of it around) or money (most Norwegians in Mannheim study either accounting or economics). Still, the music is usually good, and in most Scandinavians, there is a lurking crazy black dog which comes out when baited with a certain amount of grain alcohol. And then one can talk to them, quite pleasantly.

I was wired when I got there. You'd laugh, but it was from studying in the library. There is this thing about studying law, the sheer mental urge of grasping a certain problem is like a shot of adrenaline piercing your brain. It is hard to come down from this kind of trip, or to talk of something else while you're on it. Lawyers drink like dragons, all lawyers from the poor yobs who sort out petty criminal offences in the neighborhood to the M&A types. Law students are no exception.

And drinking is mostly what I did at that party, beside watching Ned dance.