Back when I loved the disco-biscuits
Used to get together with friends once or twice a month, get pretty fucked up... starry-eyed, red-lipped, nonsense-chatting, gurning moron. Fact.

Post party, strolling home with a stogie of a joint to the family household, safe in the knowledge that at 5am no bugger would be awake, leaving me to sneak to my bed, wake up at about noon feeling like shite, but safe.

Bumbling along with nary a care in world, rounding the corner, to see ALL the lights on in the front of the house.

Fuck.

Fuckitty fuck fuck.

My parents are straight-laced immigrants, lovely people but no idea of drug culture. To put it bluntly, had they suspected anything, I would have been disowned.

In the weird otherworld that I tend to inhabit at the tail-end of a night of psychadelics, I reasoned that it wouldn't be so bad, and if it came to it, I'd just tell all and be done with it... No more hiding.

Deep breath, key in the door, my jaw clenching repeatedly as I try to relax... Finding my dad, asleep on the sofa, in front of the Ashes.

*exhales noisily*

Saved by cricket, whowouldathoughtit?
(Ragathi wants to know where his evil twin is on, Sun 30 Jan 2011, 11:30, Reply)