Terminal Dave once wrote about the time he got an astronomical council tax bill, which he dealt with by spending copious amounts of money getting wasted, because “if you’re going to drown, does it matter if you drown in 40 or 41 feet of water?”
If you’re cheating on your partner already, is it that much worse if you add another person to the mix? At the time, I reasoned that it wasn’t. A couple of minutes after I started making out with #81 at the Valentine’s Day party, #82 showed up. He was the other person #79 had turned down in the Blind Date event, making the equation really neat and tidy. It was me who instigated it, really: I realised that if I could encourage #82 to kiss #81, then we could all get on with it together. The three of us ended up locking ourselves in somebody’s bedroom; I don’t think the people who lived in the flat were very impressed. We just made out and maybe a little bit more. It was nice. Which is generally the point.
I don’t think I actually saw #82 again until my friend Łucja’s party several months later. I think it was a fetish party, but in a studenty, fancy-dress way more than anything else; I think I had #80 on a leash for a while or something, but she said I was too rough with her and we abandoned that course of action. Then I mixed too much dope with alcohol and had a whitey and ended up slumped in the kitchen with my head in #80’s lap. I should’ve learned by then; I had started to have unpleasant episodes with dope ever since overdoing the waterfalls when I was visiting #78 in Dublin, and my entire cannabis experience had gone crazy after that, with even the tiniest smoke leaving me incapacitated for hours while I explored the confusing new worlds that opened up in my head. So there I was, and there was lots of activity going on around us in the kitchen but I couldn’t engage or move my head, and #80 kind of stroked my hair and I was so fucking grateful that she was there looking after me because I just couldn’t deal with anything. My street cred: out the window.
#82 spoke to me. He was a disembodied voice and I wasn’t looking at him. He pleaded with me to raise my head. “Why?” I asked flatly, and he said something like “Because I’ll be sad if you don’t.” Wrong answer; I was not in the mood. “Okay, fuck off then,” I said, and he promptly vanished. Eventually I stumbled out of the flat and threw up in the stairwell. I phoned him the next day to apologise for being mean. The end.