It's a friday and I'm bored waiting for the day to finish, so I can indulge in two days and three nights of physical and mental self-abuse at the local bar.
I while away a few minutes by calling up my brother to see if he wants a night on the meths as well, but he's taking a month off to get healthy, becoming vegetarian, eating herbs and drinking lots of water and things.
I call the Police, give his address and mention their responsibility under section 19 of the mental health act, tell them he sounded suicidal and mentioned his extensive collection of World War II Weapons.
Bloody vegetarians.
Next I call up a couple of mates, but they've got married and engaged and stuff and are trying to save money by hanging out at home and making their own clothes and stuff. I call the cops and dob them in as well, wimps.
Next up I call a mate who's too offensive to get a girlfriend, and funnily him and me seem to have an understanding. We hate each other but it's better than sitting at the pub alone. So we agree to meet at a bar on the eastside of town at 8.
I call the cops and tell them that the guy they want for driveby shooting last week will be at the bar at 8 and they say that's funny, that's the second call they got in 2 minutes about that, and that they'll be there.
Can't trust anyone these days.
I call up one of the sisters to see if she would deem it socially acceptable to be seen with me if I wear my best jeans and don't wear my "FUCK OFF" tee- shirt to the bar. She says ok, so we agree to meet at 8 in the middle of town.
I've run out of quarters so I decide I'll have to go, so I get my "FUCK OFF" teeshirt from off the floor where I hang it and give it a good spray with deodorant. Well, not really deodorant, Fly Spray, but it *IS* the perfumed kind and it's supposed to last 15 days. And kills all crawling insects, so I'd better get the number of the poisons hotline in case it gets too over- powering.
I get my worst jeans from in the corner and put them on, then go outside and work on the car for a few minutes. Then I realise I don't have a car, and besides, I don't know anything about carbeurettors. Not even how to spell it in fact.
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I head towards the meeting with my sister.
spt@waikato.ac.nz