The Celtic Arms Narrative

We're in an Irish bar in Sydnam: The Celtic Arms. The drummer is my boyfriend, the weather is warm, and the beer is cold. The pies are good.

Tim, my worldly flatmate just tried to EFTPOS a box of matches; a sign of the times. His cigar reeks. It reminds me of my times in Wellington with my philosopher and his artist friend.

Sobriety is depressing. Alcohol is what allows you to flash the World your black G-string, listen to the band play a Proclaimers cover, and not give a shit. Alcohol allows you to feel comfortable around people you struggle smiling at. Alcohol tastes good.

I have to say, some of the best times in my life have been drunken. True, so have my worst. But at least I can get drunk to forget them. My flatmates are the only ones I could safely bring to a place like this, so I could have company doing the girlfriend thing. Crazydumbbastards. Best on the planet. This move sucks. Why are you watching.

[Slow fade to black]