...not as such.
But a good stab at it though. Friday night involved pink martinis and oppulence at an Oppenheimer birthday party, while Saturday involved dehydration, 45 000 people, peeing in bushes, tot packs, disappointment over how many commercial songs Metallica played (like hardly any)...and a whopper of a fight with Small Bum.
He dropped me off about 2 kilometres from my door at 1:30 am after the concert, leaving me fuming and stinky. The next morning, looking like Frankenstein's spawn after zero sleep and a mean hangover, he pitched up at my flat, also luckily looking like death. We argued then made up, had make up sex and slept the entire day.
Why did we fight, you ask? (Or maybe you don't ask, but I tell anyway):
This is why. Please take into account the prior consumption of cane tot packs.
SB: So...if I was in an accident tomorrow and became a paraplegic, would you break up with me?
Me: Jeeziz. I have no idea. But I'd at least try and give it my best shot. You?
SB: It probably wouldn't last, no.
Me: Well fuck you very much.
And so it went.
Conclusion: never even talk about that stuff. Ever. Especially after 20 tot packs each.
Then there was my ex R, who has usurped ex S in favourite ex stakes, because he's pleasant on the odd occasion, who was asking me on Friday if and when I plan to start producing children.
Ex R: You like kids?
Me: Depends. If I can give them back, yes.
Ex R: Do you want children?
Me: I guess. Like in 10 years time.
Ex R: Seriously?
Ex R: Huh?
Ex R: Oh ok.
Enough with the hectic stuff already! Paraplegism and children, it's more than I can take!