Toilet Paper Bandage

I had finally just started drifting away, then the cat attacked my foot. I am starting to fear cats, I swear. I look them in their dengue fever eyes and can't help but see their possessed quality.

Last night was a disaster. I, of course, was only trying to help. I said to Maddy that she needed to wash the crusted chocolate and vomit chunks from the corner of her mouth, brush her red hair, put on a sparkly dress and come out with me.

She was rambling on about razors and pills and a never-ending hazy coma, but I still thought that a few pints could cure her.

I love London cabs though, they are so spacious and the cab drivers are totally polite and courteous. Not like the rude NYC drivers that argue with you about the best route to Brooklyn.

We went to a bar in Soho. One that Madonna used to frequent when she was married to that Guy guy. Or so I was told. I didn't even think bitch drank. Anyway. After a beer and a shot I could have a normal conversation with my friend. She actually laughed once, or at least she chuckled. But after three beers and three shots she was crying about the ex-asshole again. She wasn't just gently and discreetly sobbing either, she was bawling. People were trying not to stare, but the show was so magnificent that they couldn't help themselves.

I said; you need to get a grip on yourself. Get some perspective. She smashed an empty beer glass on the table and got a shard and scarped herself on the wrist. It wasn't a deep cut, but enough to draw blood. And that blood made a lady next to us choke on her peanuts. While some meatheads at the bar were laughing.

Out on the street, with a toilet paper bandage, she said she wanted to go down to the Thames and swim until she drowned or died from exposure.

I somehow got her home and eventually she passed out. And I am supposed to fly home tomorrow. I may need to call her parents.

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