Faced

Dear Diary,

What the hell just happened? Lots of stuff. Atypical Freyasday night with plenty of booze and blitz. The problem with staying straight half the week is, when you do hit the bottle and bud-chollie twifter, you are f- s-faced. Man. What's goin' on?! F- if I know! Jees.

Anyway, meanwhile, Back On the Flex, Maxy was in Færie-land once again. 'Tis of no consequence.

Larry rang, some scouser needed somewhere to stay, f-, boned, their was no way it was going to happen, though I offered at first, I thought against the notion of having a homeless liverpudlian, not so ... On the Flex. Maxime, the naked drummer would surely disagree, it matters not.

So anyhow, I got back on the flex, stayed on the flex: by ringing all-around, to every soul I knew to try and get said scouser somewhere to sleep. Uncle came through, but finally, t'was not needed, said scouser went with friends down the pub. I'm just glad he doesn't know precisely where I live. Not that it mattered if he did. My painting of the naked bird with the guitar Muffin did for me is still up by the front door. On the Flex.

After such ... trifling affairs, I thought it wise to go walking in a rain-storm. Bad move Maxy. So not on the flex today, soaked to the bone, reminded me of being back out on the road. So not on the flex. Anyways.

After hazy blitz-barrel bequeathed to indulgence said light-weight can't handle and is about to sick up. I just hope I stay awake at tomorrows tutorial.

On the Flex,

Maxx