I got up at 7.15am. I told Sam, who was still in bed, it was 7.15am, actually, 7.18am by that stage, and he said he didn’t care.
"Don't you have to go to work?"
He accused me of buying another bag of pot, but I said, “no, I was just efficient with the first one.”
“Rubbish!” A rather unexpected slap to the left cheek. But he didn’t say any more, he seemed to have bought it all too, it would seem, and I got clean away with it. (Against the greater truth that you never get away with anything)
He accused me of lying about what I ate, of all things, as there was the fried rice dinner still in the freezer. “I’m not lying, why would I lie?” I said. “What do you do, take inventory as soon as you get back?”
“Rubbish!” I ducked out of the way of the second slap. (Actually, there was no second slap.)
“I ate fish and chips last night,” I said. “No, the night before, last night I slept through. I ate muesli for breakfast and lunch yesterday.
It is overcast and grey.
Sam left at 8.15, with his laptop under his arm. He waved and blew kisses all the way down the street until he turned the corner and was out of sight.
8.45am. Third joint. Third coffee. The wind blows.
Aghast that Tony Abbott is trying to make a political come back of sorts, I am sure I have PTSD from his previous term as prime minster. And, "Stop the Boats."
I'm, mildly, surprised when I learn that it is Friday.
Buddy climbs into my lap as I drink my coffee. Clearly, Sam has even found the time to poison the dog with flea juice, he smells like we should change his name to Monsanto. I try to encourage him back to his own bed.
I think the lounge room smells like farts too.
Is it me? I do a mental check of when I last showered?
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