A life (barely) worth writing about, by Charley

[blackbeltninja]

Right

So I know the diary-as-novel is a pretty old standard these days, but I thought it might be a worthwhile exercise to have a bash at one.

It's still very much a work in progress with only about 15 entries thus far over the preceding 10 weeks, but I figured I'd start publishing now or fall into my usual trap of hoarding the damn thing for a decade and not letting it see the light of day. So here it is - the first three entries.

I'll post entries as I finish and polish them, but I promise no semblance of regularity - you've been warned.

Comments welcome.
-d-

****************

3 March 2008

Today in history: Gandhi started a hunger strike in Bombay in 1939. And Time Magazine published its first ever issue in 1923.

Nothing quite as exciting or memorable as that going on here, I’m afraid. My news of the day is that after only two full weeks of actually being at varsity I am dangerously fucking close to failing Maths 1. Okay, so it’s probably like waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too early to say for sure, just 11 lessons into the semester, but I am so fucking lost already. Grumpy old Mr Botham back at school was right – I’ll need to work much harder to keep abreast of things here at university.

In other news, none. It’s another week; I’m still feeling my way through this whole thing. More and more, though, I wonder if I shouldn’t have opted to go away to college, like they always do on tv. It would be a worse education, technically, since UCT is the only African university ranked in the Top 200 institutions in the world, but the guys who are here at UCT from up-country or abroad just seem to be having more fun than I am. I mean, if I’m going to bomb out in class I might as well at least be enjoying my time here!

Trevor is also really starting to work on my nerves. He’s as thick as a plank but doesn’t seem to know this; how in the name of Chr!st he got into university is beyond me. His mom must be sleeping with someone powerful; it’s either that or some or other witchcraft. We have another sodding Physics practical this afternoon as well, and if the last two are anything to go on it will be another late day with me doing all the work while he bumbles along cocking everything up behind me. He already spent the first quarter of an hour of my day up here talking about some pointless crap while I was trying to mingle with my classmates and attempt to actually meet some new people. New people seem to know to shun Trevor instinctively, something I can’t do since we’re paired up for some pracs – thanks, dad, for having a shit surname so he and I are back to back on the class list.

Okay, be fair – I’m cranky because I’m not getting any sex yet (as usual) and I still haven’t found out the name of the Mystery Man in the front row, the cute one I mentioned last week with the serious haircut and the steel-framed glasses. In my mind he’s built like a tank, and I say something witty to him and he laughs and then for no reason I fuck the bejesus out of him with little ceremony and/or foreplay. I suspect The Clergy would not really appreciate my use of the J-word (even when hidden in another word) when talking about gay stuff, and less so when I should be focusing on my maths, but G0d, he’s hot. Oops – did it again.

More as it happens. I like having this free period in the middle of the day so I can write this stuff down, even though I should probably use it to try to gain some ground in class.

-C

 

[blackbeltninja]

4 March 2008

Fact of the Day: Sponges are animals. I feel like I should have known this and I’m not at all sure why I thought they were plants. I’m glad someone else blurted out plants in class before I did – so much of condescending laughter; it burns us, Precious!

Another eleven minutes of Trevor to start my day before I faked the need to have a wee and ditched him. Victoria, as only she can, thinks he’s sweet; Kim encourages him, just because she can be a total cow when she has The Lady Troubles. I’m guessing, judging from her complete bovine-ness (is that a word?), that it is PMS-City for Kim at the mo, and in a bitchy way I am kinda glad about that even if it makes the daily commute less than pleasant.

This is another reason why I should have gone for the inferior education and headed up to Joburg to go to varsity at Wits – living on campus would mean not sitting on the sodding highway for 50 minutes every morning with Ryan singing along to all the crap on the radio, another thing all these foreigners from Up North studying here don’t have to do.

Caught the eye of Mystery Man yesterday in between classes when our paths crossed outside before Cell Biology, and gave him a smile and a nod. He did not reciprocate. Either MM couldn’t place me, or the smile and nod came across as desperate or maybe psychotic. If the latter, hopefully it was psychotic. I’d rather be thought of as “crazy” if only because it is probably a bit cooler than being thought of as “sad.”

He dresses nicely, MM, all preppy-cool. I prefer surfer-cool, if I’m honest, which is how I dress (regardless of Kim’s mooing on the subject, the beefy slag), but it suits him. He has lovely tanned skin, which I am both jealous of and would love to suck on for a bit. In my world, there is a tiny, tiny Speedo tan under those linen pants of his but I reckon this is certainly not the case. Mr G_d would have to be smiling on me big time for that to happen, and, well, he generally doesn’t. In my world he’d probably also be wearing something colourful and fun for undies, but given the average .za boy’s penchant for dull boxerbriefs, cheapish and black/white/grey/navy, I suspect those prevail too. *theatrical sigh* The thought of him makes me all tingly, you know, down there.

Luckily Trevor is not in the same group as me in our lab for Chem practicals because Kim wants us to move in the prac this afternoon and get done ASAP so we can get home quickly. Apparently she is starting a new waitressing job tonight - since cigarettes have become so expensive, I guess Paul has got tired of forking out for them and is making her pay for her own. Hahahahahahahaha bitch. Should I suggest she just put out for him instead, and then when she does point out that that kinda is the very definition of whoring? Tempting.

-C

 

[blackbeltninja]

6 March 2008

Things I like: garlic bread. Proper stuff, French loaf, sliced into rounds, with garlic and herbs and butter in between, wrapped in foil and then baked to a beautifully tasty, drippy, garlicky unhealthy fabulousness. We had some with dinner last night, for no reason I could see. Usually it comes out when we have finger-food and snacks and that at parties and/or events; not complaining, though, even though it was weird. A peace offering from mom to dad, perhaps? He likes it more than I do.

I have news - I am becoming gayer, it seems. Hard to believe that just two years ago I’d never really considered it, then suddenly bam! Hard for hard-ons. I have yet to really broach this subject - my sexuality - with anyone except you, Diary, so mum’s the word for now, yeah?

Still, the reason I am saying this is because last night I was unbelievably horny and I may have actually gone through with it, the very thing I’ve been threatening to do for ages and although everyone on the internet says it’s completely normal, I can’t imagine reading about it in a Men’s Health. Maybe the readers’ submissions in FHM, sure; Bizarre definitely, but until MH carries it I won’t be convinced. Of course you know what I mean, don’t you? In case you don’t, well, bad luck. Still, bitter, slightly salty with a hint of boiled chicken and a bit like household bleach; Jik, to be precise.

At least what I assume Jik tastes like – I’ve never tasted bleach, I don’t think. Apparently, according to dad, I did have a few mouthfuls of that other cleaning standard, Handy Andy, as a kid before Mom stopped me; the lemon one which itself looks not unlike cum, really. Cum or come? I prefer come, if I’m honest. Anyway, was the guzzling of a bit of Handy Andy as a tot something of a foretelling? Parents, watch out for your baby boys – they might catch The Gay from a bottle of lemon-scented scrub.

Still, it was in the shower and I had the raging horn while trying to decide whether I should be manscaping or not - since it appears to be pretty common these days, and I don't want to be left behind, do I? - and so I had to take matters in hand. Don't judge me, Diary, it's been a long, dry season.

As The Moment of Truth approached, a stupid fucking pigeon flew onto the windowsill and scared the living piss – well, come – out of me. Usually I aim it up, up and away and really fire that shit out but I got such a fright I stopped after breaking point and just ended up dribbling into my right hand. Not exactly a five-star orgasm, either, a two-star at most in the end and a waste of a perfectly good buildup, I thought.

“But hey – make the best of a bad situation,” I said to myself. It took a bit of nerve to actually do it, though – it wasn’t exactly warm by the time I finally went for it, but I’m not sure that would have made it better. I don’t know whether I could do it again, mine or someone else’s. Still, is that a milestone of sexual development I should be proud of? I like to think it is.

Later I couldn’t sleep, so I wrote a poem:

MM, do you manscape?
Are you bald like a stone on the beach?
Or are you natural like Greek yoghurt
Your bum a little fluffy, and fuzzy like a peach?
That is a perfect metaphor for
your butt, so firm and untanned.
If I can’t put something up inside it
Could I hold it in my hand?

And while I’m at it, MM, would you swallow?​

This awesome display of latent literary talent demonstrates why I am majoring in Chemistry.

It’s Thursday and I don’t have a big prac this afternoon. Paolo, who is across the bench from me in Chem pracs (there are 4 spaces on each bench; 2 on either side), has invited me and a handful of interested others to have a kick-around at lunchtime in the hope that we can put together a team for the indoor football league which starts up next month. New people to meet! I am looking rather forward to it.

-C

 

[rocabar]

Enjoying the slice of South African life, Black. Are there autobiographical elements in this piece?

 

[blackbeltninja]

^thanks very much.

There are a few minor elements from my own early-mid 90s undergrad days in there, but not terribly much. My own story thus far is even less worth writing about than the protagonist's, I'm afraid. I did however base Kim on my old lab partner and Victoria and Ryan on some of the people in my old lift club, though.

-d-

 

[blackbeltninja]

7 March 2008

Things I can’t take seriously: emo kids. I mean, really? I remember when music was more music than lifestyle, and I’m the same age as half these idiots. Get a fucking haircut, for one, and two, I’m happy to help you smudge your eyeliner for that tearful look. With my fist.

Spent the first twenty minutes listening to details of Trevor’s hot date from last night. Um… it wasn’t. I’m a little surprised she (no name; I wonder if she’s even real) didn’t smash an Austrian crystal wineglass from the exotic restaurant over his head about three minutes into the thing, since it sounds like it was the very definition of a dull evening with someone creepy. Kim must be even more PMSsy than usual, since she actually said that. To his face.

Victoria has been appalled at our behavior – apparently she spotted our Trev at the Student Youth for Jesus house just off middle campus, where she spends a lot of her time, and he has thus grown in leaps and bounds in her mind. Since she clearly has the Jesus spirit in her, I can’t in good conscience even suspect her for liking him just because he’s loaded (he is; I wasn’t joking about the Austrian crystal glasses. Seriously, he drives a new GTi and has a Breitling watch, and those were his 18th birthday presents from his folks. His family is l-o-a-d-e-d). I do wish he’d quit with Charles, though, and call me Charley like I’ve asked him to. Clearly he appreciates my parents’ regal upper-class ideals – in fairness, there hasn’t exactly been a King Trevor popping up in the history books as far as I know.

Okay, so I’ve remembered why I played hockey at school instead of football. I didn’t do too badly, but some of those other guys… wow, they’re good. Not sure I’d be good enough to make the team, but since there is quite a lot of talent among us we’re thinking about entering two teams and then I should be okay. Nice bunch of guys, too. Okay okay, a nice looking bunch of guys. I stuttered and stammered my way through most of the thing trying to not get a stiffy. I think at least one of them is gay, a B.Com guy from Paolo’s dorm called Tim; and possibly one of the two engineers, Colin, but I’m not completely sure in either case. Did I mention I have terrible gaydar? I blame the emo kids for this as well – at least Back in what experts and historians would wisely refer to as The Day you could be fairly certain that two guys all up in each other’s business were actually gay.

I bailed on the football earlyish to grab a quick shower afterwards before my maths tut (did I mention I am fucking out something chronic in maths?) because I must’ve smelled like a miner; school being the way it was I’m not used to showering in company so I deliberately went early so I wouldn’t have to get nekkid with an audience of people I sort-of knew. Imagine my dismay when four of the others pitched up to shower ten minutes later. I was being all brave about it and everything, but I kinda had to and oh my days, Paolo is fucking HUGE! Jeebers, his knob is about six inches flaccid; possibly longer down than mine is up, which I don’t think is fair. How sad it is to be a .za white guy of English descent – the black guys and the white Afrikaans guys and the guys with Portuguese blood in them always seem significantly bigger than us, according to the covert studies I've carried out at the gym. I wonder if the English have the smallest cocks in the EU? There’s a Master’s degree for someone in that study; I’d do it if I could touch and take pictures… where was I? Oh yes – the showers. I looked, of course, and I wasn’t the smallest guy there, thank G_d, but I took a super-quick super-cold shower anyway so I didn’t pop a cock-stand with all the eye-candy on display.

The locker rooms are a little gammy, as well – there is an Odour, for one, and they could use an overhaul. Anyway, looking at Paolo, all freaky and hairy and shit; he looks like he’s wearing a jersey in the shower, it reminds me that after The Taste two nights ago I didn’t get in there with a razor after all – better do that this evening before heading out.

Yes, that’s right; you read it correctly – I am heading out. I have cracked the nod to a house party, having clearly made something of an impression with the guys playing football. Hello, social ladder; don’t mind me while I climb you.

-C

 

[Autolycus]

Nice to see a different approach to story telling - your diary is most entertaining.

Damn! I have admitted that I have read it - surely it is not the right thing to do? Aren't diaries meant to be private?

Keep writing - I promise not to disclose any of your secrets

 

[blackbeltninja]

^Thanks very much.

Is anyone else reading? Feel free to comment - pluses and minuses all welcomed.

-d-

 

[blackbeltninja]

Mon 10 March 2008

Song of the Day: Tokyo Police Club – Tessellate. Get it while it’s hot, guys – it won’t be ’08 forever…

Unlike gorgeous Mystery Man, who appears to be aceing this stuff, I’m even more behind in maths than usual following a workless weekend, and now in the shit at home to boot. Friday’s house party turned into a massive dog show about halfway through and I made the mistake of a.) letting on that I'd never been pass-out drunk before, and then b.) letting some big rugby players mix me drinks all night. I was fine until I had to get up for a piss and by then I realized I was in trouble, but of course when you finally figure out that you’re slurring and can't walk straight it’s already too late.

I’ll admit I didn’t know one person could puke so much and actually still live. I say that because – and I’m not joking – I managed to lose almost four kilograms since Friday night, according to the scale at the gym. I threw up all over the fucking place. Nothing where it shouldn’t be – at least, not on the carpets or floors so nobody had to clean up after me; not sure those flowerbeds are going to be productive for too much longer, though – but I prayed to the porcelain gods at home for pretty much nineteen hours between 11pm Friday and 6pm Saturday.

Mom’s anger – and dad’s unofficial hilarity; not helping an already tenuous period of domestic jockeying, as suspected in previous entry re garlic bread – at me daring to "arrive at my house in that... state” had changed to concern when I still couldn’t even keep half a glass of water down by lunchtime, and I’m pretty sure she only didn’t kill me because she thought God would finish me off first. Hell, even I thought I was dying; in between the sweats and stomach cramps all I could think about was hanging on and not kicking the bucket until I shag something (MM, where are you?).

Note I did say something, and not necessarily someone – this is indicative of my current level of desperation. I blame American teen sex-comedy films about baked goods for this anguish; and for once I identify, and sympathise, with Australian and Welsh farmers. No, wait - I identify with the farmers; I sympathise with their sheep.

Nevertheless, destroying my reputation and my imminent near-death aside, I appear to have been quite the Belle of the Ball – at least, the male equivalent; the (shaven) Balls of the Ball, perhaps? – and my antics and escapades will live on in my new nickname, Flyweight Charley. I suspect this accolade and new-found respect is related to how little of me is left physically following the amount of mass I lost via the Mystical Art of Being Violently Ill into the Koi Pond. Those fish are expensive; hope they're all okay.

For once, the pre-class talk was all about me and Trevor and Kim had to suck it up and just listen. I’m sure in my own way I was Sticking it to the Man. Alas, not Sticking it into MM. I have really got to find out this guy’s name.

Oh shit – I didn’t do the Cell Bio assignment and it’s due in half an hour...

-F.C <------ note................../proud

 

[Craiger]

I was never good at writing in a diary or journal. Therefore, BBN, I will enjoy myself vicariously through yours. Just be careful with that razor...lol Fun story!

Craiger

 

[blackbeltninja]

^Thanks, will do!

174 views so far and only 3 replies? Hmmm.

Nevertheless... onward!

-d-

 

[blackbeltninja]

Thurs 13 March 2008

Things which irritate me: Trevor, and that almighty bitch Kim. ‘nuff said.

Praise be – I think Maths is going to be okay. We did Class Test 1 last night – yes, that’s right; it was from 6pm. A night exam from 6pm, following a no-prac afternoon of mooching around from lunchtime? This is another reason why Going Away to College would have been a good idea – I could have headed off to my room for 5 hours instead of loitering around up here doing sweet fuck-all. It sucks not having a car.

Anyway, I think I did okay at the test and that’s what counts; my level of entertainment will have to hang back in a fairly distant second at this point. So Maths might be fine – yay! Friday’s in-class Chem test is going to be another story, though… just as well that’s happening during the period and not Friday night, because a.) it’s Friday night, and b.) I have crappy Bio pracs on a Friday afternoon. Not sure why the Maths test wasn’t in class – probably because it was two fucking hours long – and the Chem and Physics ones are shorter and fit in during lecture times. Anyway, I am feeling better about the Maths, which is at least some sort of start.

As we were waiting to go into the exam room, though, just to put my precarious pre-maths mental balance off a little further like the gigantic rump steak of a cow she is, Kim rather gleefully pointed out that someone who can’t hold his liquor is often colloquially called a lightweight, and that in boxing the lightweights are divided into Bantamweight, Featherweight and – of course – Flyweight, hence my new nickname. I am thus trying to find proof that in at least one of the four thousand languages scattered all over this shitty dirtbox of a planet, Kim actually means “obnoxious fat slut.”

I have not had much luck with that as yet, if I'm honest. Thus, I have also decided to find someone at one of these Wicca/RPG/Fantasy/likewise deranged hippie societies we seem to have plenty of on campus who can put a pregnancy spell on her, and wipe that smirk off her Revlon Whore Red (and, incidentally, perfect-for-cocksucking) lips once and for all.

Speaking of red, a plus of night-time exams is that thanks to the randomness of the seating for the exam – you draw a number from a box and that’s the seat you’re in; to ensure that nobody can have planned to pass notes to each other during the test, apparently, since you can’t choose your spot – MM was two seats ahead of me and one row off to the right, a Knight’s move in Chess (and a horse I would not mind a ride on, let me tell you!), and I got to stare at his back and imagine rude things every time I looked up.

His shirt rode up a little as he stood to hand in his paper and jackpot! I got a glimpse of some undies – white waistband, fairly boxerbrief-esque and probably a disappointing, generic, cheap store brand, I would guess from the lack of writing on the waistband (surprising, given the cost of the rest of his kit. Diesel jeans? Hello!), but the rest of them were distinctly and unexpectedly bright, vibrant red. I believe you can tell a lot about a guy by his choice of unmentionables and so this is indeed a turn-up for the books.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy this replay several times later on during some Quiet Time in my bed and I will report the occurrence of one (1) 4-star money shot during these proceedings. I managed to talk myself out of a second taste, however; much as I think I would like to have another crack at it, it was not entirely pleasant last time.

On that note, Quiet Time is amazingly smooth and sensual thanks to the good folks at Schick and their wonderful disposable Extreme 3 series of razors and shaving gel for Sensitive Skin like mine. I’m not sure I did the cleanest, neatest tidy-up job of my tangled and untamed man-garden, but it wasn’t terrible for a first try and I do love touching it now. Haha I’ve just touched it again before typing this very sentence! Mmmm silky.

And on that note, we have another kick-around at lunchtime today – 2 hours’ time – and if like last week I get shower company afterwards it will be the first time any other humans have seen my bits all shaved and manscaped. I’d be lying if I said the thought was not a little worrying.

-C <------ note

 

[Autolycus]

Still keeping up with you - sad most folk fail to add a complimentary remark

Maybe if your title was 'The Diary of a Sex-starved Charley' you would get more hits and more than a smidgen of responses. Unless your dick is hanging out in every other sentence the readers move on to the next tale of erotica like lemmings falling off a cliff!

Your sense of humor is terrific - can't wait to read how your next sortie into the humiliation of communal showers pans out, shaven bits and all

 

[rocabar]

Well- I for one am enjoying this. I LOVE Y'alls sharp wit!

Auto is right... very few people comment.
I had one of the more prolific authors on this board tell me, that if his comment to view ratio, was over one (yes 1!) percent, then he felt as if he were having a red letter day...
As long as Y'all keep posting bb, I'll keep reading!

 

[Craiger]

I have to agree with both above. And, BBN, you have been with us for over 5 years so you know how persnickety some of our fellow JUBers can be. Auto may have hit on something in referring to the erotica most look for, however, I think it's nice to have a humorous, well written story with a few sexual overtones thrown in every so often. Don't get discouraged. Also, I glad to hear that the razor worked well even though I prefer a more untamed man-garden....lol

Craiger

 

[blackbeltninja]

Thanks for the compliments and the support thus far.

-d-

 

[blackbeltninja]

Fri 14 March 2008
# of Days since My Penis last got Touched: 1
# of Days since My Penis last got Touched involving Another Real Human: 6782

So it seems the internet can tell you anything. It says I was born on a Wednesday and at this time I have lived 6782 days; that’s 18 years and change with about five months till 19. Without putting too fine a point on it, that seems far too long to not be fucking other people with some semblance of regularity, myself excluded; and far too long to have not yet had relations with someone at some point in my lifetime.

At this point I’m wondering whether I could make money as the poster boy for Virgin Atlantic. I’ll be a laughing stock, but at least I’ll get free flights to exotic places during which I'll not join the Mile High Club on. Sad to think that the only time anyone else has ever shaken my moneymaker was to circumcise the damn thing 6782 days ago.

Neat segue – our group of post-football showerers (still a low five from twelve playing; not nearly enough wanking material for my liking) seems to have a 60:40 split in favour of circumcision with three of us presumably having had our winkies butchered against our wills as babies. I’m not sure how representative these numbers are given our small sample size, but I will make a point of looking even more from now on. Anyway, Colin, Danny and I have been done; Paolo and Russell have not.

I am thinking more now that Colin might well be gay – I noticed him glancing furtively at Danny while they showered yesterday, and he also gave me the once-over, although I was sitting in my towel since I bailed early to avoid the rush and was eager to not yet put my amateur topiary skills on display.

Nevertheless, I wonder if I’m Colin’s type? He seems like a nice guy, seven out of ten looks-wise and not in bad shape at all, and unless he is like the world’s biggest grower I don’t think he would do too much damage to my servants’ entrance. Honestly, I could quite easily do worse…

…but probably not in Chem. I’m pretty sure I saw my arse in a mirror with today’s test. All multiple choice questions, but so few of the answers I worked out were in the options to choose from, so clearly there was some fuckery afoot somewhere. Hopefully they will look at my workings and give me some marks for what I’ve done, although logic dictates that if the workings were correct the answer I got would have been one of the sodding options on the page. I aced Chem at high school, and I had no idea I wasn’t getting the hang of it here; unlike Maths which I was pretty certain I was lost in from like Day 2.

Ironically, Grant who usually sits behind me was most aggrieved he couldn’t see my answers over my shoulder – no random seat allocations this time; not sure why – because he was hoping to cheat off me and doesn’t believe me that I think I bombed out completely.

Things are pretty tense at home. Last night the ‘rentals weren’t even talking when I got there and that didn’t change by the time I headed off to bed. I assumed Mandy had pissed them off – she can be divisive and manipulative, that one; very good at playing the rest of us off against each other – but she was still at school at drama practice and hadn’t been home yet. I wonder what is going on. They argue like an old married couple, the folks, but then again it’s because they kinda are.

This weirdness of the last few weeks is more than a little odd. I wonder if they’re still having sex; or perhaps a lack of desire on someone’s part is causing all this. Eeeuw, now that I think about it – do I really want to know that my folks are still getting their legs over at their age?

Odd. I will do some detectivating at some point. But only after quickly getting all that sodding Chem figured out. I do hope this doesn’t fuck up my DP too much.

-C

 

[Autolycus]

Sadly, geographical location precludes any possibility of giving you that long awaited touch. However, your daily dose of diary notes is quite touching in a metaphorical sense

 

[Craiger]

What can we do to help????? Give us some clue as to your needs and we'll see what we can arrange. Always glad to help a fellow traveler in the hormonal world of sexuality.

Craiger

 

[blackbeltninja]

Tuesday 18 March 2008
Things I like: heavy drinking

I have a hangover. Another big night out for young Flyweight Charley (is there a lower weight?) and although I didn’t organically water the garden last night like last time, in a way I wish I had since I don’t think I’d be sitting here feeling as shit as I do if I’d mokked it all up on the way home instead of keeping it all bottled up inside like a tough guy’s emotions after he fucks out completely in a maths test.

A lot of people went out on the piss last night, since it turns out rather a lot of us may have very slightly fucked out completely in that maths test which I thought I did rather well in. I didn’t. When I looked at my mark on the board, I’m pretty sure a bit of wee came out; thank heavens for double-lined pouch front boxerbriefs by Bad Boy Inc of Brazil so I didn’t get a wet spot on my boardies; and while I’m at it thank heavens for black boardies for in case.

On the plus side, nobody in my little lift club – including Kim, thank G_d – did well, so I’m not the only one sitting here nipping about next semester. We all have a lot of work to do, it seems. The car stank of piss on the way home yesterday.

I think MM did okay, given that the marks went up yesterday lunchtime and he seemed quite chipper during class today while most of us were feeling very sorry for ourselves indeed and refusing to look Prof in the eye as he gave today’s lecture on matrices. I wonder if somehow I could kill two birds with one stone and get him to tutor me in Maths in exchange for sexual favours. MM, I mean, not Prof. Eeeuw, he has a huge, fuck-off beard! On a related note, could I be the first person in the world literally forced into prostitution by mathematics?

Even thinking about that is aggravating my headache. I managed to hide it all from my mom this morning only by some or other black magic, and I practically had to drink half a bottle of Listerine to cover the reek of whatever was seeping out of my pores when I stumbled out of bed still in my jeans from last night. I kept them on – seems getting that plastered interferes with your parasympathetic nervous system, according to the Bio lectures we had last week, and that’s why you get the whiskey dick and can’t get it up. It causes the alcohol equivalent of cold-water shrinkage, and I didn’t really want to encounter my already unimpressively average knob in that state so I didn’t get undressed for bed in the end.

Not sure exactly how many units I had last night either, but my wallet is kinda light at the moment; either I drank half a distillery or we were being raped by the inflated prices down at The Naut. Then again, if you knock back enough Jaeger bombs, that is certain to perform a complete and total cashectomy on even the most stuffed money clip. That’s right, kids, Trevor has a money clip instead of a wallet. I’m clearly not doing this right.

Also in the glow of too much booze in the car on the way home, I might have very slightly fantasized about doing something x-rated with him a little bit; very worrying indeed since I only realised what was happening and with whom quite far into the damn thing. So you see, kids, this is why binge-drinking is bad. This has been a public service announcement.

-C