A tale of woe.
So. Being at a loose end as I was earlier in the week (and, more to the point, at a loose end and in a reasonably good financial situation) I decided to meet up with a few old acquaintances.
We had initially resolved to get hold of something to make the day more entertaining, but the person bringing them to us managed to get himself arrested while standing at the bus stop. Upon reflection, I probably should've realised this didn't bode well. But... it turned out one of the acquaintances was as cute as I remember her being, and, after the consumption of much alcohol, we resolved to get more intimately acquainted -- and since she was one of the two people living in the house, it was simple enough to head to her room and disrobe.
Midway through proceedings, I got a text from the ex asking when she'd seen me last, since she was trying to work out just who assisted her in producing the Cthulhoid spawn she's currently carrying and was attempting to throw the blame my way. Hilarity did not ensue, but the situation was resolved by the simple expedient of pointing out that the shortlist of eligable gentlemen would, if printed in particularly small type, fill at least four telephone directories. The fact that the timing was off by at least a month helped, o'course, but at that point simple logic seemed far less appealing than a long stream of the vilest invective at my command.
O'course, we didn't reckon with the other housemate, who by this point had kept pace with us (and, consequently, drunk enough vodka and rum to refloat the RMS Titanic). Unbeknownst to me, but knownst to everyone else, he also carried one hell of a torch for this girl despite having a long-term girlfriend - who was also here - and a supposedly monogamous relationship.
This being a house full of drunks, people keep attempting to come into the room to be social, thus forcing us to stop doing whatever we were doing and adopt some semblence of decency until they've gone away again.
Just as I'm finally scenting victory, and my evil schemes are all beginning to pay off, in comes the housemate... despite being warned by the last two pissheads that Naughty Things were afoot, or at least imminent. He's mumbling incoherently to himself like the bastard dreadlocked spawn of Foul Ole Ron, with the occasional swearword just about audible over the maddened burblings, and he proceeds to park himself (or, more correctly, fall backwards on his arse.. although unfortunately without doing himself any lasting or fatal injury) in the corner of the room.
While still muttering, and while fixing me with a gaze that woulda been rather more intimidating if he'd been able to keep himself upright.
Unsurprisingly, we politely ask him to bugger off, as we're busy. Or rather, attempting to be busy. He then proceeds to start swearing and shouting, punches a hole through the door, then stomps out into the hall, where he (in a moment worthy of The Shining) punches through the bathroom door... as a poor, small, and rather inoffensive 17-year-old fellow pisshead was attempting to use the toilet. Unsurprisingly, she was rather surprised by this turn of events.
He then throws his girlfriend across the room and halfway down the stairs, before finally repenting of his tardery and attempting to hack pieces out of himself with a pair of safety scissors. My feelings regarding the fact they were safety scissors are most uncharitable, and shall of course not be mentioned here. His girlfriend, now in the throes of a full-blown hyperventilating panic attack, is duly looked after by the pair of us and the other drunks, once we've removed all sharp objects from the immediate vicinity of the Tard. (after managing to open the door where he's barricaded himself, finding him crying his eyes out like a small child upon being told Santa Claus didn't really exist. I couldn't possibly comment on the situational irony, considering he'd spent an hour or so previously mocking 'emos'.)
Once the tardery had abated and no-one appeared to be at imminent risk of death or dismemberment, we decided to go to my place instead.
There's far fewer loons, and I'm the proud possessor of a BIG FUCKING STURDY DOOR WITH A BIG FUCKING LOCK!
O'course, the Tard did ring us at least 3 or 4 times during the course of the evening, the following morning, and the early afternoon... but ya can't have everything, I guess.
Why are things never simple?
We had initially resolved to get hold of something to make the day more entertaining, but the person bringing them to us managed to get himself arrested while standing at the bus stop. Upon reflection, I probably should've realised this didn't bode well. But... it turned out one of the acquaintances was as cute as I remember her being, and, after the consumption of much alcohol, we resolved to get more intimately acquainted -- and since she was one of the two people living in the house, it was simple enough to head to her room and disrobe.
Midway through proceedings, I got a text from the ex asking when she'd seen me last, since she was trying to work out just who assisted her in producing the Cthulhoid spawn she's currently carrying and was attempting to throw the blame my way. Hilarity did not ensue, but the situation was resolved by the simple expedient of pointing out that the shortlist of eligable gentlemen would, if printed in particularly small type, fill at least four telephone directories. The fact that the timing was off by at least a month helped, o'course, but at that point simple logic seemed far less appealing than a long stream of the vilest invective at my command.
O'course, we didn't reckon with the other housemate, who by this point had kept pace with us (and, consequently, drunk enough vodka and rum to refloat the RMS Titanic). Unbeknownst to me, but knownst to everyone else, he also carried one hell of a torch for this girl despite having a long-term girlfriend - who was also here - and a supposedly monogamous relationship.
This being a house full of drunks, people keep attempting to come into the room to be social, thus forcing us to stop doing whatever we were doing and adopt some semblence of decency until they've gone away again.
Just as I'm finally scenting victory, and my evil schemes are all beginning to pay off, in comes the housemate... despite being warned by the last two pissheads that Naughty Things were afoot, or at least imminent. He's mumbling incoherently to himself like the bastard dreadlocked spawn of Foul Ole Ron, with the occasional swearword just about audible over the maddened burblings, and he proceeds to park himself (or, more correctly, fall backwards on his arse.. although unfortunately without doing himself any lasting or fatal injury) in the corner of the room.
While still muttering, and while fixing me with a gaze that woulda been rather more intimidating if he'd been able to keep himself upright.
Unsurprisingly, we politely ask him to bugger off, as we're busy. Or rather, attempting to be busy. He then proceeds to start swearing and shouting, punches a hole through the door, then stomps out into the hall, where he (in a moment worthy of The Shining) punches through the bathroom door... as a poor, small, and rather inoffensive 17-year-old fellow pisshead was attempting to use the toilet. Unsurprisingly, she was rather surprised by this turn of events.
He then throws his girlfriend across the room and halfway down the stairs, before finally repenting of his tardery and attempting to hack pieces out of himself with a pair of safety scissors. My feelings regarding the fact they were safety scissors are most uncharitable, and shall of course not be mentioned here. His girlfriend, now in the throes of a full-blown hyperventilating panic attack, is duly looked after by the pair of us and the other drunks, once we've removed all sharp objects from the immediate vicinity of the Tard. (after managing to open the door where he's barricaded himself, finding him crying his eyes out like a small child upon being told Santa Claus didn't really exist. I couldn't possibly comment on the situational irony, considering he'd spent an hour or so previously mocking 'emos'.)
Once the tardery had abated and no-one appeared to be at imminent risk of death or dismemberment, we decided to go to my place instead.
There's far fewer loons, and I'm the proud possessor of a BIG FUCKING STURDY DOOR WITH A BIG FUCKING LOCK!
O'course, the Tard did ring us at least 3 or 4 times during the course of the evening, the following morning, and the early afternoon... but ya can't have everything, I guess.
Why are things never simple?