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.

Be true cause they'll lock you up in a sad sad zoo

Fabian seems to have really taken to his new found employed status with the same ferocity he took to being a crackhead. In other words he's come home every night this week talking about "lazy dole scum bastards" and wee kids in the shop that he knows are shoplifting and how if he catches one of them stealing he's going to nail their hand to whatever they're stealing and boot them out of the shop on their arse. I think he was high on felt tips when he said it but that's no real excuse.

I've been taking Battle Cat for walks down to the Odyssey Arena. He likes the picture on the underpass of the bear wanking and giving the fingers but I keep telling him it's a shame he's not human because if he was then we could go in for a boogie on a friday night and maybe get a woman or two.

For now though we just sit and stare across the smelly Lagan at the Masonic compasses on the far bank.

A storm is coming.