I Desperately Need Water

 SMS. 2.20. Live aid rocks! – Lauri

SMS. 06.40. Well Miss had my first fever! Out of the way quickly. I think my line is infected, yet I remain in good cheer! And you? – Tom

I woke up looking at my clock-radio. It said 7.25. I rolled over and sat upright fully expecting it to be Sunday morning. It was dark.

It is awful, that feeling of expecting one thing, unquestionably, only to find out something completely different was true. My head spun, for those first few seconds, as I sat up in my bed, trying to latch onto something in my new reality. I wondered, momentarily, if I had lost my mind. The outside didn’t suddenly go light, nor did I suddenly remember the day. I didn’t even remember going to bed. I thought for a second that it must have been Saturday night, until I saw that the paper was, mysteriously, next to me and it said Sunday. Then my one glimpse of a memory came back to me. I remembered going downstairs and thinking that Tim and Beau would be awake by 11.30 am and that I wouldn’t have the house to myself.

I walked downstairs like I was playing the wrong part, in the wrong production. I put the TV on, because logically Big Brother would be on. I cooked fish, remembering that I ate plums, at some point earlier, previously. I was still giddy, just a bit. I got the mull bowl and as I looked down into it, I remembered my second flash back. I couldn’t smoke pot until after I’ve been to see mum. Mum? MUM! Fuck! I’m not going now. I’m not losing my last precious few hours driving. No thanks. It should be Sunday morning, not a few hours before bed.

I was supposed to visit Tom…yesterday morning, after the club. What was I thinking? I remembered Tim tapping me on the shoulder and saying time to go. I’m very compliant when I am drugged. I remember walking out of the club and getting straight into a taxi. Then nothing.

My head was still spinning.

SMS. 17.59. Alright Christian time to wake up! How was your weekend? How are you feeling? I won lotto last night! $27.05! Woohoo! – Tom

I called Tom after Big Brother. He’s had a dose of chemo and his central line is already infected. He tried to tell them about low platelet’s, when they were putting the line in, but, he guesses, that they didn’t listen.

I thought, Oh gosh, already. Numb, I was quite numb. Tom started talking about his procedures, thus far, and it was all coming out, Blah, blah, blah.

Tom said that I had been abusing myself all weekend. I could only manage to say, “Not today.”

I watched Law and Order and NCIS mindlessly. Tim and Beau came home and watched TV and went to bed during one of the programs.

I’m a bad man. And for my wickedness, I now have to iron a shirt. And do you know how much I sooooooooo don’t want to do that.

Mark’s called twice. The first time Pink Floyd was singing, Wish You Were Here on Live8. Mark said that’s what he was wishing too.

I have to iron a shirt.

I desperately need water.

Things are not looking good for tomorrow. I mean, I’ll get there, but finish of the complete years work. Oh dear. Rabbit out of a hat time… and that’s just for ironing the shirt. Nuk, nuk, nuk.

An hour till midnight. Bugger.

I felt sick while I was ironing the shirt. A couple of times I didn’t think I was going to make it. Then I checked msn, don’t know why and my head really spun.

dated Friday 24th June. 12.20.

Subject: (the other) Monday

hey Christian... sorry never responded. I rarely, if ever, check this for emails. Just was cleaning out the inbox and came across this... how have you been? Would be nice to catch up again sometime.

Dean

Subject: (the other) Monday

Hey Dean, pity I didn’t read this earlier in the weekend. We must catch up soon.

Christian

Just as I was wondering why I didn’t write a more chatty, friendly email to Dean, he signed in to msn. I wish I’d signed out. I’m in no fit state to be presenting in person with anyone.

He’s nice, Dean. Gorgeous looking. Amazing eyes. And university educated, not that he and I have ever talked much about that. It’s always been late at night, grunt, grunt, grunt, spoof, spoof, spoof. See ya. Ironic, really.

I want to sign out.

I want to have sex with him, don’t get me wrong, but when I’m in a fit state to, shall we say, perform at my best. Save him for the best me.

I signed out.

I’m going to bed to nurse my sore dick.