Eww I feel like I’ve been drunk for a hundred years. I spent Thursday through to Monday consuming a grotesque amount of alcohol and drugs, and now my brain feels like it’s swimming in a pool of battery acid. Some strange shit has been going down over the past four days though. I think it’s something to do with the air in our new squat…
Spent Thursday night at home snorting ketamine and tattooing the name KANE into my squatmate Kerri’s left breast. Kerri recently became single and has since grown creepily obsessed with a druggie loser named Kane. She met him in a field at Offset Festival while she was on acid, then spent the following week stalking him on the internet. She eventually managed to get his phone number off a mutual friend, after which she texted him saying, “Hey, it’s Kerri from the field! What’s your address? I have a really cool mixed tape I want to send you!” Talk about embarrassing. When he neglected to reply she followed with another text that read, “YOU’VE CHANGED.” Remember this is a guy she met once for approximately four minutes.
So obviously the logical next step in this series of shameful events would be to get the name of the man who thinks you’re a psycho stalker tattooed into your flesh. We used a sewing needle and Biro inc for the procedure. The first few minutes were hard because Kerri kept writhing around and screaming in agony, but after an adequately sized line of K she was fine.
On Saturday my intern Stan and I held the second casting for my soon-to-be gay porn. I think a few of the boys auditioning were slightly freaked out by the heinous state of our squat and its wasted inhabitants, but it was worth scaring a few teenage boys for life in order watch hotties make out all day. Sexy.
On Saturday night, during a house warming party for our new home, Kerri and I somehow managed to accidentally lock ourselves in her bedroom with a random French guy we’d never met. We were trapped inside for eight hours before a locksmith finally came and freed us. After the first hour we got pretty bored, so naturally we did what any three wasted people trapped in a small room would do—we had a threesome. I can’t remember much of it but apparently I spent most of the following hours lying naked on the floor screaming “You’re so hot it’s gross!” into the French guy’s face, and downing shots of vodka. To make the situation even stranger, French Guy had a weird foot fetish and kept trying to put my feet in his mouth. I found it kind of gross at first, but he was French and looked like a junkie AIDS victim (aka my ideal man), so I let it slide.
Around hour seven of the lock-in we all got really dehydrated. Thankfully my flatmate Dom came to our rescue by tying a water bottle to our cat’s neck and forcing it to walk along the narrow ledge between his window to ours. At one point the bottle rolled off the end of the ledge and we were pretty certain the cat was going to fall four stories to its death, but it ended up being fine.
So, like, all in all a quality weekend. I think.