October 11, Sunday. Wimpole Street. 3:45pm

[jamesmacca]

I was sitting in my room, door locked with a towel stuck underneath the door. Wait. I wasn't sitting. I could see the ceiling. Was I sitting on the wall? No, no that's impossible. Unless I put glue on my ass. Very strong glue. Oh shit, I hope I'm wearing pants otherwise I was never moving, or I'd rip off my skin

Comments

[pattieboyd64]

I was home alone, had absolutely nothing to do. God only knew what George was up to, and every one of my friends I felt like going out with was busy (and in my boredom I managed to concoct a rather elaborate conspiracy for this particular coincidence, which I'm certainly hoping will never escape the confines of my own mind, thanks). My luck, eh? So when the phone rang, I bolted across the room, saying a quick prayer that it was for me and not Mary Bee, and whoever it was would be up for either a club or a long chat.

"Hello?"

[jamesmacca]

Oh shit someone answered.

"Hello?" I asked, not knowing who it was. If it was Pattie, I'd give myself a dollar. "Who ...is this?"

[pattieboyd64]

I raised an eyebrow. "This...is Pattie," I said slowly. The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite--wait a minute.

Oh, my god. "Paul?" If I was right, that would be incredible.

[jamesmacca]

"Pattie? Pattie who?" I had to figure out this mystery. Who the hell was Pattie and why was she calling me?

"How do you know my name?" Oh god. Was this some kind of secret agent trying to find out if I'm high? Play it strait, Paul. Act sober.