My pet died last night.
I will therefore blame the events that followed on the death of my guinea pig, Mason.
(Let’s tally 2006 up in the meantime, shall we? Stolen cellphone, speeding fine, flu, car crash, pet death. I feel like a million bucks. Luckily I’m intoxicated by lust half the time, which makes this easier.)
He’s old, I knew it would happen soon. I got home from work, walked to his hutch and saw him falling all over the place. Panicking, I picked him up, and held him, wondering if I should risk taking him to the vet, when he died in my arms. Traumatic. Since I am not allowed dogs or cats in my apartment block, I chose a guinea pig. I loved this little guy. He died. I cried and cried, phoned my ex boyfriend and phoned my current boyfriend blubbering and blowing snot bubbles.
Current boyfriend (Small Bum) and I went to a cocktail party, I started drinking cane to drown my sorrows. Never drink cane when you’re emotional. I’ve only really got slammed on cane when I was happy, and fuck me, it’s a different experience.
This is what happened:
Arrive at friend’s cocktail party. She gives us tequila.
Drink cane, lots of it.
Drop bottle of cane onto pristine patio, it smashes into millions of fragments before the eyes of a whole lot of people I don’t know. Leave the party.
Small Bum drives my car to the Radium Beer Hall, where my two best guy friends are.
Smash more cane there, and become very high maintenance.
My friends laugh at me, because I’m being impossibly sensitive about everything everyone is saying. (“What do you mean by that?” “Excuse me, I don’t appreciate your tone,” etc.) Nightmare.
Small Bum was extremely patient, and luckily has a sense of humour, especially when my boob tube falls down, which he politely pulls up over my bare breasts. Start crying again.
We pull into Fontana Roastery at midnight and smash chicken burgers in our faces, all while I argue adamantly with him that the road we are on is in fact Glenhove Road, when it wasn’t. I basically live next to Glenhove Road, so I was being astoundingly thick. I realise only later that I am wrong, and apologise, as the chicken burger laps up the cane in my stomach and how ridiculously stubborn I am being.
To punish me, he makes me buy condoms at the petrol station. My worst nightmare, I hate doing this, I get so embarrassed, I just want to die.
I wonder around the shop aimlessly throwing chammy leathers, chocolates, a map book (?) and Tic Tacs into the basket then casually say, “I might as well also have a pack of Midnights please.” But then I blush and start giggling. Small Bum watches me gleefully from the car outside.
I buy black condoms. Why? I don’t know. They are so porno it’s frightening.
Have energetic sex, and my aggressive behaviour is somewhat diminished because it was gooood sex.
Wake up and cry again.
It’s going to be a long day.