You were working as a waitress at a cocktail bar.

Wasn’t drinking great at eighteen? Acquiring foreign and fascinating bruises, non too troubled about your fractured memory, consuming and gorging on a buffet of bottles, and the only real consequence – hugging the toilet  for a few minutes before running for the bus.

*Sigh* those were the days. Cue twenty-three; it’s 9am, you’re up and you feel dandy. Many routine tasks cause inane giggling. Hugely smug at lack of hangover. Convince self look great with last nights make-up as your new face. I could go out like this. I could keep this on. I look like the smouldering girl in an Maybelline advert. Awesome. You eat some cereal and your stomach thanks you. That 4am McDonalds was a great idea. It’s okay that you haven’t eaten fast food for two years because you’ve read about what they do to the chicken.

Ginger Beard suggests that you go get new tyres for the car. Excellent suggestion! Am giddy on life, and desperate to share it! Arrive at garage, am so confident and blurry eyed. Is lovely. Happy to spend anything on tyres. Must be safe. Drink some Ribena. Why don’t I drink Ribena all the time? So thirsty, so unbelievably thirsty. Have developed a dreamy new walk. See all children as threatening. Decide to go shopping. Unable to get a hold on judgement skills. Words are difficult to master. 3pm. Asleep. Woken by Ginger Beard. He’s concerned that if I sleep much longer then I won’t sleep tonight. Beg for takeaway. Manage some of takeaway after fetching it in Pajamas. Only have enough energy to watch two films. Sleep until mid-day Sunday. Headache. Look in mirror, horrific reflection. I hate the world. The world hates me. Look at txts sent on Friday night, not remotely English.

And yes, you managed to find a weirdo. You, who has been managing to find weirdos your entire life. Ones who sit next to you on the bus, cat call you in the street, fix their bulging eyes on you on the dance floor, make you bloody mix tapes, and find you at the house party. It must be something I give off. Well this one, this one in with a sweat band, and greasy black hair in a thin ponytail was the cherry on the weirdo cake.

"Odd night, like, such a peculiar night. Don't you think? There are just such bad vibes in here. My name's Roland. (Hugs me here, too sudden for me to escape, smells like socks, hugs me like toddler wanting his mum to love him.) "What's really odd is that alllllll of my friends were coming out tonight, and then like, none of them came."

I don't think that's odd. I think that's predictable.

"Speaking of friends", I masterfully interject, "I'm going to find mine."

"Oh," he says, gleefully, "I'll come."

And thus begins my dive into the mosh pit, the very pit I'd run away from. Into the young bodied, sweaty, pissed-up teenagers throwing themselves around, fitting and screaming, and chucking beer. But anything, ANYTHING was better than my new best friend Roland.

I'm glad that I was never rude, but I regret that he touched me, shared my airspace, or exists. I'm a passive bully. I'll only do it behind your back, relax.

I'll never get a nice, normal, clear-skinned, sane man walking up to me, unless he needs to know the time. Ginger Beard doesn't count. He's a scientist.