Bexistentialism: HT16 6th Week


It’s a Saturday night, and my friend is problematically drunk.

We are not at an inappropriate location for being drunk (which, after some analysis, I have decided is only limited to a) a funeral of someone you don’t know very well b) if you are looking after small children c) whilst you are operating heavy machinery, or indeed, operating d) driving e) all of the above). We are not participating in any of these limitations. In fact, we are at a bop – of all places, a perfectly acceptable location for inebriation. But before you eschew me as a prude, let me at least explain.

At this particular bop I have gathered together friends from different colleges. Thrilling, I know. As expected, we dance, and as expected, we are drunk. My problematically drunk friend in question is already a little alarming. She is adorned in a very long and very large white nightgown with pink cardboard ears, and dirt on her face. (It’s more amusing to not tell you the bop theme). Therefore she is already visually discomforting. But then Nightgown-Girl quite rudely tells my friend to go away.

“Mate” I say, in the medium where it is loud enough to reach above the music, but not loud enough for him to hear. “What are you doing?”

What sounds like “Fucking fuck fuck stupid person dancing with MY fucking fuck friends can fucking fuck fuck off from my fucking fuck fuck bop” appear from out of her mouth. These eloquently framed remarks continue as I tactically and tactfully guide her out of the main room by performing Robot-esque dance moves in front of her, forcing Nightgown to reverse at a calm but firm pace.

But my steady tellings-off are delayed by the sight of someone peeing in the corridor. Mr Piddle accompanies his fierce hissing with ‘Wahey’, flourishing his weapon of choice with much joy. A swift kick and puddle-jump and Piddle is forced back into the toilets. I turn around. Fuck. I’ve lost Ms Nightgown.

By the time I find her, we’re about to head to Fucking fuck off friend’s room for a nightcap. And with the choice to walk Nightgown home or bring her with me, she comes too. A Gregorian chant accompanies us, “cigarette cigarette cigarette” emitting – humming – screeching from her lips. ‘I will dream of cigarettes tonight’, I ponder sadly, ‘she has enveloped my subconscious. Singed it with her tobacco hue’. I look at Nightgown with sadness in my eyes, and she looks up silently. “Cigarette?”, she innocently questions. I look away.

After Nightgown has insulted every inch of the college we are walking through, as well as everyone in the vicinity, a reliant friend decides it is time to take her home. I feel the fresh and sweet breeze of freedom upon my brow, and think no more. It is only a few hours later, when I wearily get home, that I find Nightgown snuggled in my bed. I have never seen her look so peaceful.


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