8am: I'm on my knees, frantically looking for my keys on the floor of the DJ booth - which has enough juice to feed an entire nightclub including all the pretty lights, endless video loops and trippy lasers but not one single overhead bulb -
Pablo & I crawling around shining our lighters into filthy corners & incinerating our fingertips in the process, when this bystander asks me: Where are you from? Where am I from...where am I from?!? I'm gonna be from Leavenworth if you don't shut up right now so help me god!!!!!!
The upshot: effective immediately, my copilot is not only in charge of furnishing lengthy, impressively pedantic explanations as to the meaning of the sentence My Friend Said It's Not OK For You To Touch Her plus its corollaries and derivations,
but also of keeping me off death row for wasting the likes of the aforementioned wanker plus countless other prime candidates for a head transplant and what the hell, why not throw a couple of histrionic pussy-whipped boytoys into the mix because, just like oh captain my captain says, You know there's gonna be more where that came from babe.
And no, I did not find my keys. Not, that is, until after I dragged the doorman out of bed, froze my ass off waiting for the 24hr locksmith, and spent ungodly amounts of money having a. my door broken into with heavy artillery and b. the locks changed. Only then did I run out of fags, so went down to the corner & the corner shop man said You left your keys here last night miss...I stayed open till three in case you came back for them.