8am. David called from the Vibe Hotel in Sydney to tell me how he’d managed Mardi Gras without taking any drugs. In days of old, he’d be on that meth pipe like a demon. Of course, he only went to the parade equivalent, show grounds nonsense, which I watched and it bored me to snores, he didn’t go to the party.
“It’s Wednesday?” I say.
He’s just surfaced from the sauna where he’s had so much sex his cock and arse hurt.
“Lovely,” I say.
“So, the few extra kilos…”
“20.”
“Er, I’ve put on, don’t seem to bother anyone.”
“Apparently.” He’s been worried about his fat arse being repellent.
“I could have had any number…”
“And from the sound of it, you did.”
“I did.”
He was sitting up in bed watching morning television as he snacked on something, contemplating going home to Ballina.
“Head home,” he said. “Walking up the street this morning to find breakfast seems like too much effort.”
Morning television? What a load of shit, as Nan would say. When I watch morning television I can actually feel myself losing IQ points. It is not only that morning television doesn’t add anything to society, it is actually taking, it is a net subtractor, it is draining every single one of us. If I looked in the mirror after watching morning television to see I was only a skeleton with skin stretched over it I wouldn’t be surprised. David Campbell isn’t cute enough to make up for it now. And Karl, talk about a porker. Morning television is everything that is wrong with society today, there neatly package for the world to see.
I make toast and coffee.
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