When I was a wee boy I was a member of Sexmästeriet. Sexmästeriet is, as you all know, the party committee at the Student Union. Sexa apparently means party in Latin. Anyway, I was invited to this 25th anniversary at my first college in Borås, so a friend of mine, who also was a member and a party in crime, and I returned to the crime scene this Saturday. Very weird party. Most of the attendants were in their early or mid twenties. They were loud. They were difficult to comprehend - almost alien. And, ahem, how to put this: they all had really big bones. Robust appearances. Big presences. P and I schratched our heads on this one. In our time, the kool kidz aspired to be members of Sexmästeriet (at least we like to think that). But this, this was more like a fan convention for The Revenge of The Nerds. Fortunately, a couple of good friends from the past showed up so we actually had a good time. The most bizarre thing happened after we left the party. There was a bar at our hotel so we ended up there and P, my friend, met a former employee. So we went home to this guy for efterfest, a very Swedish phenomena, almost as Swedish as lagom. As soon we entered his appartment his wife came on on me really, really hard. Shockingly hard. In the meantime, the poor guy embarrased himself practically begging P to rehire him. Bizarre. Bizarre. Fortunately, I managed to fend off his wife without too much fuss, and we soon left. Obviously, by now we were extremely hungry so we scoured downtown Borås for some junk food. No such luck 4.30 am, I can tell you. So we took a taxi 20 kilometers to a gas station for a halv special and went back to the hotel. That was the most awful $100 hotdog I ever had.
A night to remember.