I had to sit like a girl to piss this morning. Oh, my aching back. Oh, my aching head. OMG! I thought, as I rest my head in my hands as my urine tinkled on the water surface. That Nicholas and his orange juice container fashioned into a bong. "Oh yes, classy," he says in a voice not unreminiscent of Kathleen Turner. (circa 2005) Oh, I don't feel good.
"Do you want a bong before you go?" were Nicholas' parting words.
Just say no Christian. Just say no.
Of course, I did. And the long walk up George Street, practically crossing Fitzroy, seemed longer than ever.
My eyes look water, as I gaze at myself in the mirror. Hideous! I think.
I feel like crap. Actually, I feel like less than crap. I feel like that turd that has gone white and flaky on the nature strip. That's how much beyond crap I feel.
If I dare cough, both lungs will be on my desk flapping like a fish just out of water.
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