I went to see The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It seemed interesting, what I saw of it. It was Friday night, the end of the week. I've worked two weekends in a row. We had a couple of joints before we went in, I was asleep within 10 minutes.
I'd also been to work drinks, hanging with Charlie. He's nice. But throw in stubbies of Carlton, maybe three. Actually, it started at a farewell lunch, when I ordered a pint because they didn't have schooners not realising how much bigger pints were. Then not thinking that I'd get another pint when the guys went for more drinks. I wafted around the office all afternoon.
In the cinema, I tried to wake myself up so many times, but couldn't. The giving in was glorious.
It's a pity, the movie was really interesting the way it was shot in the beginning from the eyes of a man waking from a coma, coupled with sleepy eyes. It was mesmerising. I was right there.
Apparently, the movie was great. Both Mark and Luke were impressed, telling me I had to go and see it again, as I stumbled to the car - thinking I was in Brunswick Street, only to have my entire reality spin when Lygon Street came into focus. Everything looked shiny and black and was moving fast.
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