So after 2001 last night, my flatmate drove me eight-tenths of the way to Meg‘s house so I could sell her my printer. I was quite delighted by this since it meant I could either eat for another week or I could have a play with that excellent prostitute who has been scoping me out in Soho recently. Oh, hang on a minute. There’s something wrong there…
When I arrived, we regaled each other with tales of woe and frustration for a while, before our life crapulence one-up-man-ship palled. Then we had Thai food out of a silver packet and looked on in horrified silence at the film that Luke was watching. Every ten minutes I’d turn my stupified face away from Titus and towards Meg, at which point I’d ask quietly, “Is it just me that thinks this film is totally fucked up?!”. She merely rolled her eyes.
After a while even this new game palled, so we ran into Davo‘s bedroom, and I rolled around on his bed, and we smoked lots and let our minds run free like Caribou bouncing free across the plains of insanity. We talked of Tom Wopat and how rough he looked after quitting his long-running TV show, and how we weren’t entirely convinced by his new career choice. We had a listen to one of his country songs. Later, Luke did too, but he didn’t find it as funny as we did. We talked about the worst people in the world to cover Radiohead’s Karma Police. (I still put my money on Wizzard.) We determined that I was a feminist and that Meg was insane (scientifically proven fact). We ran and we danced among the flotsam and jetsum of out digital lives, scattering bon mots like candies to the poor and needy children around us. And we laughed and laughed until our lungs burst and we collapsed to the green grass – a camera above us, recording the satisfied, almost sexual, looks on our faces…
The I went home and watched television, reinstalled a web bulletin board and got to sleep about three-thirty in the morning. [Meg’s version of events]