The last instalment of the fool and the slut

Been so busy I’ve only just realised that my friend Steve hadn’t called and whined about his mis­er­able exis­tence this past week. He just called ear­lier. Some­thing about being some­where in Thai­land, try­ing to get away from it all. Wish I could be there too, at this point.

I sup­pose Steve’s got bet­ter rea­son to want to get away than I do. But if I know Steve well enough, he’ll be back in a week, com­plain­ing that his Singtel bill is five pages long with charges for 1,000 inter­na­tional SMSs to the idiot girl he’s not quite see­ing and from whom he’s try­ing hard to get away.

I’m not too sure why Steve’s the way he is, and I don’t really wish to know. But he should know damned well the girl he’s not quite see­ing is just play­ing the field, steal­ing kisses when she can from as many Steves as she can find. The slut.

Steve? He just makes a dive for the pain that’s call­ing, and this girl he’s not quite see­ing knows damned well every time she makes noises like an injured ani­mal, he’ll be there. The fool.

He prob­a­bly dances a lit­tle jig of joy every time she calls, no mat­ter what time of day or what state of mind she appears to be in (although most times, she sounds in deep emo­tional dis­tress, even when there’s club music in the background).

I don’t think I know any­one else who’s got such immense propen­sity towards self-inflicted trou­bles as Steve. Except mebbe myself, say, a year ago?

But you know what? I’m tired of air­ing Steve’s woes. The bug­ger should go start his own blog. You hear that, ya sad fuck? (That goes for you too, slut. Leave my friend Steve alone!)

The queues out­side Denki Sushi were never as long again after Jimmy’s index fin­ger and thumb were sev­ered by the con­veyor belt and eaten by din­ers on the other side of the restau­rant ($3.75, red plate).