Fuck, frozen pizza is fucking expensive on the Reef. Everything is expensive, but frozen crap—that’s disgustingly so. Listen to me: buy from the Turk instead, one of those shit-smeared, puke-splattered, dogshit-and-pigeon-cum kneaded, fart-soaked Ahmed-asshole pastries in the morning. I swear, buy it—it's still better than this rotten junk I ate today. I thought I’d puke all the way home in a glorious arc, but no—I smoked when I got home, then ate “a well-known brand’s” piss-cum, and fuck me, I was done for until morning, three times over.
Now I’m lying here, on top of the world, Fi trying to save me—but what for? Sweetly telling me to fuck off, that she told me so. She told me so. I puke to the rhythm of 4 Non Blondes – What’s Up. Heeey-ey-ey-ey-heeey-ey. Ey. Uuuh. Fiona’s holding my head.
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