How to Know if Your Balls Have Dropped

I'm stuck in an endless conversation. I don't know where it began or what it's about or even who it is with. Or even if my contributions are all that relevant.

I spend my mornings before work sitting at the Masonic compasses at custom house square staring out over the Lagan at the Odyssey Complex. Thinking about goths and satanists, and crackheads and alcoholics, and my puppy dog that depends on me, nights of smokin' hot heavy metal rock and roll vomit parties and if I'll ever get them back? and if I'll ever get out of the call centre before it shuts down anyway? And if I do will I get somewhere I want to go? And will I ever get a sweetheart of my own before I too turn to stone?

The little bit of okayness I gained from sneering at Captain Cool Bastard has trickled away like the last dribble of pish on the toilet seat the morning after a humungus bender.

I can see it, there's something of what I loved still there but I don't want it back, because it would't be enough.

I HATE WESTLIFE

I'm feeling better and I've been up and at 'em since yesterday. I went round the sweaty metallers to tell them I was excited about our next jam and about the banshee singing with us. That's when they sat me down and between them (they're hard to tell apart, and they rarely are apart, that's why I always talk about the two of them together) that they also like the banshee and don't know where I fit into the band anymore. I nearly screamed at them, no one screams like I scream, I thought but then I remembered what the banshee sounded like through the walls.

They must have seen the look on my face because they said they hoped we could still be mates and they'd still take me to rock and roll vomit parties. I told them that would be nice but to be honest I don't believe it.

I went to their toilet and pished all over the seat. Then I left, still friends.