Resolution

In Prague, there is a bar that has a legendary 80s/90s night every weekend which we frequented so much we would be there when the roll of widescreen videos cut off at closing time and would come back when it picked right back up. Seriously, Nothing Compared (2 U). Pints of beer were 75 cents, the dance floor was huge, and strangers asked you to slowdance in a non-sleazy way. And EVERYONE knew the words to Winds of Change.

Lucerna Music Club was the site of many of my cartharses.

Like Bjorn, the Norwegian weapons dealer I briefly dated until the fateful night that his cell phone rang while he was in the bathroom at our favorite restaurant and I made the excellent decision of answering it. So I could talk to his wife. She seemed very nice. She thought I was his secretary. She told me I had excellent English.

I left a note scribbled on a napkin that said "Your wife called." I went home and decided whether I wanted to cry. Instead, I called some friends and we went to Lucerna where we plugged Bjorn's name into every hate-fueled song that showed up on the enormous video screen.

The above was my favorite. Take out "Bjorn", substitute "Josh."

And we're done.