This ice cream is the best ice cream in the world. My hungover brain thinks as I shovel the deliciousness in between two bread buns and a wad of ketchup. I shall accept no ice cream before this, and eat no false sorbets.
It is at this point, of course, I am confronted with a reality more disturbing than usual:
I. Am. Roaring. Durnuk. Durkn? DRUNK! Yes, that’s the one- Durnk. ….SHIT! Well, you probably get what I mean- it was a good new years party, full of hope and treacherous vodka jello shots and tequila and wine and champagne and, worst of all; Iron Bru.
In case you’re curious, my new years resolution was as follows:
1. Never drink again.
2. Never throw up into Allan’s favourite sock again.
2. Never drink again.
6. Never drunk-text an ex at midnight PRECISELY, in place of kissing that hot bartender of ambiguous gender.
Yes, this night has not been one without regrets- but isn’t that the point of new years? TO wash away the old mistakes with newer, fresher ones? Preferably bigger ones?
I’m face-down on the couch when I feel it. Tingling, all over. I’m too drunk to explain it, but it’s like I’m turning red. Then purple. Then into stardust, only to re-assimilate into a Samantha-shape; this is unfortunate, as my name is Terry. Samantha is my mother. Luckily, the Terry-shape does find itself once again fixed to my consciousness, however, the moment it does the rest of the world… Hmmm.. A delicate way to put this… The rest of the world gets sucked away like a 50-buck back-alley hooker doing an inside job.
The darkness that surrounds me in this instant is hard to contemplate- it surrounds me like a black ink- I’m swimming through the nothingness, but it doesn’t touch me. ‘Dafuq?’ I murmur, furrowing my brows and wishing I HAD ordered the extra-strength onion rings back at the pre-party party. There must have been something in the drinks at the post-party party.
Or it was that spliff; that grass tasted like a dog pissing into my lungs, man. Nobody’s inviting Mary Jane back to that party.
I feel as though I should be screaming, however I’m in that odd limbo of drunkenness where everything is normal- dragons, talking dogs, your mum blowing the mailman, everything. The void is endless, and so is the utter normality of it.
It’s the reality it re-assimilates into that’s the problem.
It’s as if I’m back in Allan’s house, though the couch is harder than I remember- I pat the roughness beneath me and wince. Looking down, I see it’s a bed of needles. I hear a scuffling noise and have to blink my eyes very very hard in order to be able to focus.
The bed of needles is in the centre of a white, powdery circle. I get my hopes up for a second before I taste it, and discover it’s salt. What’s more, my finger starts to feel hot- uncomfortably hot, the closer it gets to the edge of the circle. Inside the circle is a pentagram, burnt into the floor so badly it’s left grooves and scorch-marks. I look up at the group of adolescent demons in front of me and question, ever the charismatic Brit,
‘What is the meaning of this?’
Wait, adolescent demons?
The one in the middle with 200 bloodshot eyes and a ‘Justin Bieber’ T-shirt drops the Ouji Board it’s carrying and screams, ‘WHAT THE SHIT?! JAMES, I TOLD YOU NOT TO FUCK AROUND IN THE ATTIC!!’
The one on the right, which is a bowl of petunias with sharp teeth, studies me carefully and rustles in an aggravated manner.
The one on the left is a writhing mass of tentacles trying to balance one eye, which drops on the floor and rolls closer to me. ‘ROSE IS RIGHT! I WAS RIGHT! I TOLD YOU WE SHOULDN’T HAVE TOUCHED IT!!’
Without farther ado, the tentacled one picks up the bowl of petunias with sharp teeth and dashes into what appears to be a loo, closely followed by the Belieber. ‘Hey guys, wait for me!’
I swear to god, if one more new years eve ends like this, I’m just going to stay home and watch Netflix.