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Fat Girl and I have sex, and both pass out afterwards, even though it was only about 11. I’m not sure if it was the alcohol, the fumes or the PTSD that put me out. Probably some happy combination of all three. The gods of alcohol often writing entertain themselves at my expense, but sometimes they throw me a bone. Waking me out writing of an alcoholic stupor normally requires nothing short of ice water and a fog horn, but somehow I awoke in time to hear Credit writing and Hate slowly opening the front door to our apartment while creeping towards my door and conspiratorially whispering to themselves. I sprung out of bed, dove at the door and locked it just in time to prevent them from charging in. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about their yelling and banging on the walls: Hate “MAX!! BRING OUT THE FATTY!! LET’S SEE HER!!!” Credit “Tell her I have a cheeseburger!” Hate “MAX!! LET’S HAVE A LOOK AT HER!!” Credit “Here fatty fatty! Here fatty!” Hate “WHERE YOU AT MAX?? BRING HER OUT!!
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