“Fuck me, it’s cold.” It was 8.34 am on November 27th, 2007. The day after my twentieth birthday.
“It is really, REALLY fucking cold!” The entrance of Chalk Farm station was serving as temporary shelter while I was trying to figure out what I was doing there, and perhaps more importantly, why I wasn’t wearing any shoes… or socks for that matter… or anything besides these purple leggings which almost certainly did not belong to me last night.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror on the outside of the photo booth and half considered having my picture taken until I realized that not only did I not have the three pounds-fucking-fifty that the machine charges for its sole function, but that I also did not have any pockets. So I walked home.
Opening the front door at 37 Kelly Street felt like entering a new nightmare after briefly awaking from a prior one. The house was a mess. I mean really, a custodian’s hell. The hard-wood floor was black with mud dragged in from the mucky outside, the walls were smeared with brown shit in bizarre yet suggestive patterns and in the corner at the far end of the living room, there was Rory. In a ball. Passed-out.
I walked over to my cousin and tried to wake him up in a very half-arsed manner. “Roars, wake up.” I practically whispered. “What happened here?”.
When I saw that my feeble attempts were even more wasted than the boy himself had undoubtedly been only a few hours earlier, I tied his shoelaces together and proceeded to climb the filthy stairs to the heaven of my bed. Huge bastard of a bed it was. It for sure wasn’t my idea to order the ridiculously dear “Deluxe Super-King Dark Oak” frame or the equally expensive “Silent- Nights Memory-Foam” mattress… but I wasn’t complaining now.
It struck me as strange that my door was shut because I always left it open for the cat, but then a lot of things seemed very off that morning. I opened the door of my bedroom to reveal the not-so-welcome sight of a strange, big-haired, dirty hipster piece of trash, snug as a manorexic bug in MY FUCKING MEMORY FOAM!
“Hey! HEY! WAKE THE FUCK UP, MAN!” His hand twitched a little.
“Wake the FUCK UP!” His crusty mascara-caked eyelids cracking just enough to see me now in my stupid purple tights.
“Sorry mate.” He mumbled, “Didn’t know this bed was yours.” He seemed to think this would excuse the fact that he’d just completely ruined my groove in the memory foam. Well he probably didn’t even realize that it was such a great mattress, he’s probably used to just passing out wherever his junkie-looking arse falls over for the last time in his own puke or piss or whatever.
“Well of course you didn’t know it was mine, I don’t even know who you are, and I typically do not allow strangers into my bed without my permission, so I’d very much appreciate it if you FUCKED OFF NOW!”
“Alright, Jesus, calm down.” He burped. “I’m leaving, thanks for the kip in the memory-foam.”
That cheeky fucker knew all along.
