Something About The Other (Kiki)

I need a new hobby. Fapping's just not cutting it anymore.

It's almost noon, and I haven't attempted to leave the bed yet. I have to pee; I've been convincing myself I don't have to pee.

Aw fuck it, I have to pee.

Flinging the covers back, the sunlight stabs me in the corneas, I'm practically doubled over by the shooting pain in my head. Jesus, you would think 16 hours is enough to knock out a migraine, apparently not.

Pee is satisfying. At least the bathroom is dark.

I pad down the narrow hall into my unimpressive living room slash kitchen and sit down at the breakfast bar. Part of me wishes that it was strewn with beer bottles, cigarette butts, something fro crying out loud- that would at least hint that I had some sort of soical life. I'm plunking down 1275 a month for this postage stamp becuase I saw the bar and immediately thought- parties. I'm gonna have shitloads of parties, every freaking night, just music and tits and abs and whatever else people sling in their pants these days.

I think the only person who's come over in eight months is my landlord. He checked the pipes in ten minutes flat and left without a word.

Whatever. I'm young. Ish.

My phone buzzes on the counter. I spring from my stool and make haste of the the yards from here to the sink. Snatch up the phone. It's a text.

THS, at The Fillmore? Sat. Sold out. Got an extra.

I text in response, Oh, you mean Irving Plaza? Cause that's what it is, you know.

Return, Oh sod off. Same difference.

Response, Save your british slang for someone who gives a wank. ;)

Return. Come off it, you're always wanking.

Response, Touche.

Reluctant defeat. Yeah, I'm in.

Return. I win.

I leave the phone alone in exchange for rummaging through my fridge looking for breakfast. Exactly how one rummages through an empty fridge, I am not quite sure, but damnit i've made it an art.