Hotboxing Hangover

I feel so rough. I have never ever in my life gotten a hangover from weed. God I feel dire.

Sorry about last night’s post. Luckily all I did was post. I almost told everyone about Notes from the Intern. Thank god I got distracted by a hat on the television.

HarryPotter and I spent the afternoon watching telly. A lovely spring day and we spent it inside watching telly. To be honest, if the Hollyoaks omnibus wasn’t so mind numbingly wonderful, I’d be I ashamed of myself for wasting a day.

Late in the afternoon Roger turned up. Roger, the King of inappropriate, was smoking a splif as he walked through the door, and he was waving a massive bag of weed. ‘This ain’t no brown content shit. This is pure green from the depths of California.’

What a dip shit.

Now, I’m not an herbal prude, I won’t get indignant if someone I’m hanging out with is partaking. However, I’ve never really gone in for drugs. I mean, I’ve smoked on occasion, but it’s pretty rare. HarryPotter is a bit the same; the occasional joint but it’s not regular habit, so why Roger was bringing that bag over is beyond me.

Also, as weed can make one paranoid, and I’d only just now made amends with HarryPotter, I knew that smoking would not be a good idea. So, I said I’d just hang out and have a beer. Unfortunately, sometimes I don’t think things through. Sitting in a flat with all the windows closed while other people are smoking might be why I got a slight contact high.

This is where I will condense an entire night into one formula:
DVD of shark attacks on telly + close up of sharks + hat on tell = sharks wearing hats.

HarryPotter and I were definitely back to old buddies. There was no sexual tension, but a lot of laughing, joking and being back to normal.

I wandered off into my room for a while and wrote last night’s blog, and when I came back out HarryPotter was on the phone with Intern2. There was lots of: ‘Yeah, come hang.’ ‘Get over here now.’ and ‘You’re a riot.’

Then I noticed a weird looking guy I’ve never seen before sitting in a corner staring at everyone. He was quite tall with a black and white stripped shirt, and pinstriped trousers stuck into a pair of Doc Martin boots. He was kind of cute in that angry perfume advert sort of way. He didn’t say anything, and no one spoke to him. It was starting to freak me out.

I asked, ‘Who’s he?’ and was so deeply afraid that someone would say, ‘No one’s there’ and it would mean that 1) there’s a ghost in the house 2) someone’s slipped something in my beer.

Thank God, Roger said, ‘Oh that’s Vic.’ (Of course, his name isn’t Vic. But he kind of looks like those old drawings of Victorians, if Victorians were Emo, but I guess that’s steam-punk isn’t it?) Vic is a friend of Roger’s and is in his final year at Uni in Dundee. He was in Glasgow to see a show, and was supposed to stay at Roger’s for the night. But when the show was over, and Roger wasn’t at his flat, he tracked Roger to ours. (When I say tracked, I mean texted Roger to find out where he was. This Vic guy isn’t some sort of MI5 genius who found Roger on the planes of Wisconsin. He just texted him, but last night it seemed like a big issue.)

Intern2 was at the flat within the hour. It’s weird, Intern2 doesn’t drink, but he does partake in the reefer. Then again, he’s a vegetarian, but he sucks cock. I guess the guy is full of dichotomies.

He was an absolute blast. I really wish I’d been hanging out with Intern2 since I moved up here. He’s fab. HarryPotter was on top form. When I first met him, he used to do funny voices, but he hadn’t done those in ages, until tonight. He and Intern2 were doing random duets: Britney and Justin, Kermit and Miss Piggy, Lady Gaga and Meat. (That last one was weird and was probably only funny because we were stoned.)

Finally we all started to come down. Everything in the house was eaten – not that there was much in the house to begin with. I was digging around my room for some left over biscuits, when HarryPotter came in and flung himself on my bed. Intern2 was passed out on the sofa, Vic was curled up on the floor in the lounge, and Roger had taken HarryPotter’s bed. ‘I need to crash in here tonight,’ HarryPotter said.

I found a half eaten digestive, gave it to HarryPotter, and said, ‘I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating cookies,’ then laughed like a maniac and lied on the bed.

I said, ‘I’m really happy we’re friends again. I can’t stand all the fighting, and the quiet, and the not talking, and all that other stuff.’

‘Me neither.’

He was snoring within seconds, and I rolled over onto my side to watch him sleep. (It sounds creepy when I type it, but really, it wasn’t.) He was laying on his back, his chest rising and falling as he slept. He rolled onto his side, so that he was facing me. He was still asleep. I looked at his eyes flutter under his closed eye lids, and his long eye lashes curled upward. He had hair in his face, and I lightly brushed it away. As he lied there, I looked at every tiny feature on his face. None of it was new. I recognised every bit. That freckle under his eye. That little scar at the base of his chin, which he got from falling off a skateboard when he was twelve. I recognised that little patch on his face by his jaw were hair doesn’t grow, because of a chicken pox scar. I recognised the arch of his eye brows, and the funny little bump in the middle of his nose. I noticed his bottom lip was cracked, but I knew he’d have Chapstick in his left pocket.

I am so happy we’re friends again, but I’m an idiot to think I don’t want to be with him. But I’m leaving in eleven days. Right there in the bed, I secretly make the same promise to HarryPotter that I made to Goatee – I’m going to go away and think about it. (HarryPotter was still asleep and didn’t hear my promise, which is just as well, because I did a Girl Guide/Scouts honour thing, which is kind of weird.) I don’t need to make a decision now. I’ve got all the time in the world.

I fell asleep looking at him, and woke up this morning to the boys playing on the Xbox in the other room. I’m looking forward to a lazy Sunday in a house full of silly boys. What more could a girl ask for.

…11 days to go.

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