Trevor vs. 13 Guinnesses, OR How I became a Swedish grad student

As previously threatened, I am including in this post a small quantity of the peculiar imagery I captured at the pub crawl last night. I will spare you most of the gory details, and instead will only explain that the crawl consisted of visiting every nation in Uppsala (there are thirteen), ending up at Stockholms, which has both the biggest and the second biggest dance floor in the city. I remember quite clearly sitting in the Orvars Krog with Sarah (in the picture--that's us about halfway through), eating blood pudding and swilling ethanol-flavored Swedish vodka. I remember quite clearly when the pictured car pulled up and disgorged a half dozen small children and a goddamn live bird. I remember Sarah explaining her theory of essential metaphysical oneness of all things, and I remember then expressing it using the Hegelian dialectic. I also remember learning that the plural of "Guinness" is "Guinni." I had thirteen in a long, slogging battle of attrition which I am considering referring to as "The Brawla in Uppsala."
Anyhow, I stumbled home around 2 and had a wierd, stunted conversation with Emma and Benny on the balcony. I learned to my horror that there was a party going on on the roof of building 8, and when I asked if I absolutely had to go, signs pointed to "Yes."
So I went and eventually found my way back home at six or so. And read an email telling me that the only possible time to register for history classes was at nine.
When you're sufficiently intoxicated so as to experience a mild inability to stand up, it takes roughly an hour and a half to walk from Flogsta to the castle where they have history classes. I therefore had exactly enough time to watch Zombie Lake.

I have now registered for every history class offered in English (four, plus one independent research project). My "advisor" was concerned that this would leave me with nothing to take in the spring, so he sent me to his higher-up for guidance. I sufficiently impressed this guy with my rambling expertise on Garibaldi's unification of Italy, so he put me in a master's degree program in the spring. Lest ye readers find this prospect alarming, allow me to clarify a few things:
1) My first class begins Monday. It meets five times in the month of September. That is the class in its entirety. My other three last from mid-November to mid-December, and meet one day a week.
2) I can do the research paper on anything I want. I have been given a key to the Carolina, with its nine million volumes, as well as a key to the National Archives, where they have a copy of absolutely every document ever printed in Sweden. I raised the concern that while my Swedish is good enough to find what I need, I'd never be able to understand it--so this guy referred me to the university's translation service. He also got me a WorldCat password, so I can interlibrary loan any book from any library anywhere in the world. For free. And he got me borrowing priviledges at the Dag Hammarskjold library, where they have a copy of every UN document, resolution, and report in six languages, as well as over a million volumes on history, politics, and economics.
I decided I was probably hallucinating at this point, so I staggered home and had a sandwich, and that's how I'm here, still pretty well inebriated, writing this. Pardon the disjointed narrative, the spelling and grammar mistakes, and the general odor of "distillery."

Uh, yeah. So the pictures are that weird car, me (looking well lubricated) and Sarah, and Martin, looking irritatingly less like Hugh Grant than usual.