Make it stop.
Make it stop make it stop.
Make. It. Stop.
There’s been a tsunami inside my body. A tsunami of beer and vodka and… oh god, yes, tequila. Tequila happened…
The aftermath is a miserable barren land of devastation. My brain clings for dear life to the inside of my skull. My mouth is pure dust and rubble. And my stomach… My stomach is… the coastal infrastructure: rocked; in desperate need of a rebuild; could collapse at any minute, resulting in unspeakable irrigation issues.
Storm clouds of consciousness form overhead. Flashbacks from last night drizzle in and sizzle like acid rain.
Outrageous dad dancing happened. Highly regrettable things were slurred in the heat of the moment. Pure carnage. Pure cringe. I bet everyone is now talking about how much of an idiotic catastro-creep I am.
I will stay in bed all day. It’s the only thing for it. Maybe if I stay here long enough, I will become at one with the bedsheets, like some sort of bed-baked duvet sausage roll congealing in a Gregg’s display cabinet. It’s the best idea I have right now.
I need food. And I need the nutrition labels on it to be colour-coded as follows: Fat – red, Saturates – RED, Sugars – REDDER, Salt – the REDDEST.
The things I would do right now for a white roll and sausage. Doused in brown sauce. Grease, bursting over my mouth and fingers and chin…
Does the internet deliver breakfasts to idiotic creeps? Probably not on a Tuesday. I have no idea where my phone is to even find out.
In fact… yes.
Yes, I do have an idea where my phone is. Yep… in sizzles another flashback. I launched it. I melted the screen with my lighter, then I launched it. Off a bridge, I think. Why? Hard to remember properly.
Last night I was a different person…
I was a person who had stolen my quota of joy from the following day and was cashing in. Now the following day has arrived, and the big bad joy bailiffs are here to claim back the debt, with interest.
I am a joyless, phoneless, screen melting, bed sheet sausage roll, catastro-creep of a post-tsunami wreck.
Please make it stop.
What’s that noise?
The sound of a human person living life to the fullest… Must be Simon, my flatmate. Just back from yoga class or whatever.
Simon will help. Simon is a good man.
“Simon! Simon, help! Simon! Could you come in here for a second please?”
Simon is wearing a bright yellow t-shirt that says ‘Let the Sunshine into Your Life’. It is making my eyes hurt. I wish he would switch the t-shirt off.
“Good night last night, buddy?” he says. “How you feelin’?”
“Like I’ve been scraped off a shoe.”
“You sounded like a hurricane coming in the door.”
“Or a tsunami… Yeah, sorry. Must have been trying too hard to be quiet. Um, if I give you money, could you get me some food?”
“I have kale and rye bread here?”
“Kale? No. No, kale doesn’t secrete any grease. I need sausages. In white rolls, with brown sauce. Can you help a brother out?”
“Hmmm. Do sausages grow on trees? Shouldn’t have picked a vegan for a flatmate, buddy.”
“But… you wouldn’t have to consume them or anything. I’d do that.”
“You brought this on yourself, buddy. You’ve got two working legs - go out and get your own carcinogens.”
“Some friend you are. I hope they discover kale causes… disgusting warts.”
I like Simon. Simon has fully convinced himself that vegan meat substitutes don’t taste any different to the real thing. Those sorts of delusions take real dedication to acquire, and should be respected and applauded.
I shouldn’t have said what I said about the friendship and the kale. I will add what I just said to the considerable list of things I regret saying in the last twelve hours…
My eyes hurt. That t-shirt really stung my eyes…
What a strange dream…
There was a kale leaf…
It was doing the Macarena…
Then it dipped me in edamame hummus and ate me.
Anyway… what’s the time? 3:46pm! Man, I thought I was only asleep for a few seconds…
A glass of water has magically appeared on the bedside table! Simon. Life-saver.
And what’s that smell…?
It…. it can’t be…
It… is. It is! Sausage fat!
“Buddy! I was just about to come and get you. Get yourself through to the kitchen – sausage rolls are about ready.”
Simon has covered the yellow t-shirt up a little, with a black apron that says - ‘I started being vegan for health reasons. Then it was a moral choice. Now it’s just to annoy people.’ I got him that apron for Christmas.
“There’s a cup of tea on the table, buddy. It’s almond milk, but…”
“Almond milk is perfect mate. Five sugars?”
Sausages are secreting grease on a frying pan on the stove. Simon starts loading them into the rolls. It’s the perfect cheap white ones that leave more and more flour on your lips and chin with each bite.
“You feeling better, buddy?” he says. “I’m sorry about before. You know, I did some reflection. Animals are important. But friends are important too, you know?”
That’s all I can respond with. My mouth is too full and floury. I’m taking the next bites before the previous ones are done being chewed. I look more like a savage animal than a human. But who cares? It’s only Simon for company. He likes animals.
The bread and grease sticks me back together, bite by ravenous bite. The sweet tea feels medicinal. As Simon tucks into his own kale and rye sandwich, deep down we both know the truth. But neither of us let on that I am blatantly eating those awful vegan sausages.
And, actually, they’re not too awful… given the circumstances.