"Where am I?" is both a reciprocal question and a matter of fact statement that could be heard coming from my mouth at various points of the day. Blame it on the sun, blame it on the alcohol, blame it on this boat (which took us into a vast body of water where no land was to be seen and no prospect of returning alive was sensed), blame it on whatever you'd like. I blame Ibiza. All of it. 

I did in fact survive Ibiza (as the sign implies) and as Kelly would say "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." But clearly Kelly Clarkson hasn't been to Ibiza because if she had, well, her lyrical renditions would be more along the lines of "what doesn't kill you definitely will hurt the next morning without mimosas."  

Scouts honour, Ibiza is the equivalent to that amazing job you dream about at night. The one that you're hoping that the statistics course you took in undergrad was worth it for. But the reality of that dream job takes your breath away as you drown in piles of work. This is a 24 hour, 7 days a week commitment. If you can't handle the heat (literally its like +60) then get out of the kitchen. The all-night raver, the boho hippie chick that dips her face in sparkles, the sexy babe on the beach. You have to be diverse in this working role.

Im kidding. But Ibiza is the holy ground for clubbing and our pilgrimage to this holy land was more than we ever expected.

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Just your typical run of the mill street art in Ibiza. I call this one "Voldemort takes Ibiza."

Because of coarse after a full day booze cruise you go to see Afrojack and Steve Aoki twice in 1 week at Pacha Nightclub (a.k.a. Steve's summer residence, a.k.a. Aoki's Play House)