London, sometime between 2011-13.
You’ve turned your sofa upside down and painted eyes on it. You dont think its talking to you, but you do think it’s protecting you from the neighbours who you think are stealing all your stuff including your next film script.
I go to your room and feel sick about all the film people making money out of you as I look at a stack of 5 mattresses your sleeping on to avoid changing the sheets. You’ve always got a shirt and tracky bottoms on, fresh from the charity shop, as managing your own laundry is just too much. There never that fresh though.
Everything smells of meth, even the dog. It makes my teeth hurt. I had forgotten the recent discovery that the guy across the hall is actually running a meth lab, which you find hilariously convenient and I find terrifying. Your laugh is terrifying. The way you say my name is terrifying. It’s Tuesday night again.