if i wasn't your friend, i would probably hate you..

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Tuesday, 7 September 2010


I wake up and it's light, like that in-between harsh white light when it's early morning. When the clouds are so thick they won't let the colour in. Everything looks cold and fucking miserable. I flick the covers off my naked bod and lean over the bint I lay last night- not as bad as I thought, actually. High five, B-dawg. Even so, I hop out of bed and quietly scramble around for my clothes. No fucking awkward convos. No I don't want to go for breakfast with you and no I don't want to pay the bill, knowing I'm never going to call you and you are never going the call me- because dear, the number I gave you is wrong. To be honest, I only fucked her because it saved me getting a taxi home and I've done enough Walks of Shame in recent years that the disgusted looks don't really bother me anymore.

It's cold and the room's spinning and it smells of stale fags and, weirdly, like old roast dinner. My breath fucking stinks too. It's kind of a nice room- drapey things and arty shit on the walls and candles everywhere so it looks a bit like this brothel me and Nathan went to in Prague. Oh God, I get this flashback of this girl doing a sexy dance for me in the candle light. Love, it ain't working for me if one of your tits hangs down five inches lower than the other. Still, God loves a tryer. Jeans; on. Where are my...? There's posters and pics of all these models on the walls, I'm not talking  Kate Moss or Giselle, but model-models.Ultra scrawny ones. All bones and no tit. Weird, considering this chick is a bit portly. She's stirring but I'm missing a shoe, and I'm scrambling around the floor in a panic, please don't wake up, don't wake up. Can't find it on the floor so I look under the bed and there's a million plates all stacked up, half eaten take-ways, boxes of chocolates and McDonald's fucking happy meal boxes all stuffed under the fucking valance or whatever it's called. Gross. I'm talking sausage sandwich crusts and this weird sticky stuff and empty ketchup bottles and it fucking stinks. Chicken bones and errrrr, empty bread wrappers.

I find my shoe and I sneak over to the door but then I check my back pocket and realise I haven't got any money. I find this chick's bag amongst the clothes on the floor and dig out her wallet. She's loaded. I think about taking a tenner, but there's seventy quid in there. I take sixty, leave her ten. If I ever bump into her again, I'll tell her I was wrecked, don't remember anything and probably buy her a commiserations drink. Serves you right for being a fucking tart. I'm outta here. I've even got enough to get a taxi home. Fucking mint.

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