Thursday, 22 January 2009

Apparently I’ve just gone to the toilet. But I’m actually standing outside. And it’s very cold.

I figure I should probably get out of Millennium Square. But according to the bouncers I’m too drunk to be let back into the club.

I don’t like being sick, but I usually am. I’m quite famous for it.

“Don’t I know you? Aren’t you that boy-”
“-that’s always sick? Yeah”

So far tonight I’ve been ok; although I probably shouldn’t have traded some Vaseline for a shot of Tequila. It’s been touch and go ever since.

God knows what I’ve drunk since.

Anyway I eventually find myself in another club. On a boat. Another drink, another, and then another. Perhaps one more?

Now someone is pulling me across the dance floor by my ankles. It’s only in the taxi home I realise that this is my house mate.

"twenty-one pounds please young man"

So now I’m holding onto the bed. And it feels wobbly to be quite honest. So does the floor.

I stumble to the en-suite.

Sick count: five.

1 comment:

Tim in the City of Angles said...

You and London Preppy should marry your characters. At least develop a treatment for cable. You can call it Hollow Lives.