Suicide by milk…?

I got home from work last night at about seven with press copies of Buffy and Angel to watch, some tomato soup, ten lucky-dip lottery tickets and the prospect of two episodes of Sex in the City. Enjoyment of same depended, however, on the presence of my flatmate Mella to keep me company. At nine she still, resolutely hadn’t turned up, so Meg and I popped down the boozer for a girly vodka and tonic, game of pool (she beat me) and many many fags (note to Americans – wash out your mind). After which, and having returned to the flat, I watched the most depressing ten minutes of Sex in the City ever, contemplated drowning myself in milk as a way to pass the time, played the Pixies and Veruca Salt really loudly, finally watched TV with flatmate between midnight and two am, and find myself (this morning) un-rested and over-bloody-come with hate towards the builders hitting things outside my window.