Date: Wed, 28 Dec 2016 18:10:06 +0200
From: Charley Reed <alongweekend@gmail.com>
Subject: Reed 'em and weep - Ch8: 18 March 2008

Tuesday 18 March 2008

Things I like: heavy drinking

I have a hangover. Another big night out for young Flyweight Charley (is
there a lower weight?) and although I didn't organically water the garden
last night like last time, in a way I wish I had since I don't think I'd be
sitting here feeling as shit as I do if I'd mokked it all up on the way
home instead of keeping it all bottled up inside like a tough guy's
emotions.

A lot of people went out on the piss last night, since it turns out rather
a lot of us may have very slightly fucked out completely in that maths test
which I thought I did rather well in. I... didn't. When I looked at my
mark, in the cold light of day and pinned up high on the board under R for
Reed, I'm pretty sure a bit of wee came out; thank heavens for double-lined
pouch front boxerbriefs by Bad Boy Inc of Brazil so I didn't get a wet spot
on my boardies, and while I'm at it thank heavens for black boardies for
just in case. On the plus side, nobody in my little lift club –
including Kim, thank G_d – did well, so I'm not the only one sitting
here nipping about next semester. We all have a lot of work to do, it
seems. The car stank of piss on the way home yesterday.

I think MM did okay, given that the marks went up yesterday lunchtime and
he seemed quite chipper during class today while most of us were feeling
very sorry for ourselves indeed and refusing to look Prof in the eye as he
lectured today's lesson on matrices. I wonder if somehow I could kill two
birds with one stone and get him to tutor me in Maths in exchange for
sexual favours. MM, I mean, not Prof. Eeeuw, he has a huge, fuck-off beard!
On a related note, could I be the first person in the world literally
forced into prostitution by mathematics?

Even thinking about that is aggravating my headache. I managed to hide it
all from my mom this morning only by some or other black magic, and I
practically had to drink half a bottle of Listerine to cover the reek of
whatever was seeping out of my pores when I stumbled out of bed still in my
jeans from last night. I kept them on – seems getting that plastered
interferes with your parasympathetic nervous system, according to the Bio
lectures we had last week, and that's why you get the whiskey dick and
can't get it up. It causes the alcohol equivalent of cold-water shrinkage,
and I didn't really want to encounter my already unimpressively average
knob in that state so I didn't get undressed for bed in the end. Not sure
exactly how many units I had last night either, but my wallet is kinda
light at the moment; either I drank half a distillery or we were being
raped by the inflated prices down at The Naut. Then again, if you knock
back enough Jaeger bombs, that is certain to perform a complete and total
cashectomy on even the most stuffed money clip. That's right, kids, Trevor
has a money clip instead of a wallet. I'm clearly not doing this right.

Also in the glow of too much booze in the car on the way home, I might have
very slightly fantasized about doing something x-rated with him a little
bit; very worrying indeed since I only realised what was happening and with
whom quite far into the damn thing. So you see, kids, this is why
binge-drinking is bad.

This has been a public service announcement.

-C