All the fuck is blurring together now.
As I sit here writing this my mind is not quite prepared for all the fuck its experienced, but it’s best to write shit up while its fresh.
So last night we had a party. There was a lot of vodka and it all went a bit wrong. I wake up in Johnny’s bed as is quite often the case. Johnny is asleep on the floor, more on that later. I feel a stab in my back and I’ve been lying on a pen. But as I take it out they just keep coming, I find a total of seven pens underneath me, and a stapler. I’m wondering where the fuck all this stationary came from.
Johnny wakes up in pain and asks me ‘Mate, why am I on the floor?’ and I calmly inform him that he chose to sleep on the floor and in fact refused to sleep in his own bed when I told him there was space.
Also, during the course of the evening I was casually dropping beer bottles from the balcony of the flat, mid-conversation. Just non-chalantly tossing them for no reason. God knows. There was an inflatable dick, and dubstep and quite frankly all these mental weekends are blurring together.