Sunday, 31 January 2010

Terms of Collision

Memory of Friday night, an epic oddysey to Granton, lost, trying to seek a party, drunk, falling over on the ice, roaring my friend's name, an ecstatic consonant-less bellow to the grim Granton night so that he could locate me.

That malicious cunt of a boss saw fit to garnish my beverage with handwash when I wasn't looking. It wasn't too malicious really, just more of a juvenile jape, a prank lacking finesse.

So I punched him in the chuckies.

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