Tuesday 18 March 2008
Things I like: heavy drinking
I have a hangover. Another big night out for young Flyweight Charley (is there a lower weight?) and although I didn't organically water the garden last night like last time, in a way I wish I had since I don't think I'd be sitting here feeling as shit as I do if I'd mokked it all up on the way home instead of keeping it all bottled up inside like a tough guy's emotions.
A lot of people went out on the piss last night, since it turns out rather a lot of us may have very slightly fucked out completely in that maths test which I thought I did rather well in. I... didn't. When I looked at my mark, in the cold light of day and pinned up high on the board under R for Reed, I'm pretty sure a bit of wee came out; thank heavens for double-lined pouch front boxerbriefs by Bad Boy Inc of Brazil so I didn't get a wet spot on my boardies, and while I'm at it thank heavens for black boardies for just in case. On the plus side, nobody in my little lift club – including Kim, thank G_d – did well, so I'm not the only one sitting here nipping about next semester. We all have a lot of work to do, it seems. The car stank of piss on the way home yesterday.
I think MM did okay, given that the marks went up yesterday lunchtime and he seemed quite chipper during class today while most of us were feeling very sorry for ourselves indeed and refusing to look Prof in the eye as he lectured today's lesson on matrices. I wonder if somehow I could kill two birds with one stone and get him to tutor me in Maths in exchange for sexual favours. MM, I mean, not Prof. Eeeuw, he has a huge, fuck-off beard! On a related note, could I be the first person in the world literally forced into prostitution by mathematics?
Even thinking about that is aggravating my headache. I managed to hide it all from my mom this morning only by some or other black magic, and I practically had to drink half a bottle of Listerine to cover the reek of whatever was seeping out of my pores when I stumbled out of bed still in my jeans from last night. I kept them on – seems getting that plastered interferes with your parasympathetic nervous system, according to the Bio lectures we had last week, and that's why you get the whiskey dick and can't get it up. It causes the alcohol equivalent of cold-water shrinkage, and I didn't really want to encounter my already unimpressively average knob in that state so I didn't get undressed for bed in the end. Not sure exactly how many units I had last night either, but my wallet is kinda light at the moment; either I drank half a distillery or we were being raped by the inflated prices down at The Naut. Then again, if you knock back enough Jaeger bombs, that is certain to perform a complete and total cashectomy on even the most stuffed money clip. That's right, kids, Trevor has a money clip instead of a wallet. I'm clearly not doing this right.
Also in the glow of too much booze in the car on the way home, I might have very slightly fantasized about doing something x-rated with him a little bit; very worrying indeed since I only realised what was happening and with whom quite far into the damn thing. So you see, kids, this is why binge-drinking is bad.
This has been a public service announcement.
-C