Hey, I forgot to tell you about how on our trip to Montpellier SiC got marched off the plane (pre-takeoff, thankfully) because something was “going off” in his bag (“What, like fruit?” he asked, mystified), and the cabin crew were giving him weird smirking looks, and it turned out his bag was emitting a suspicious buzzing sound, but then it was just his electric toothbrush, ha ha! And also, the man beside us, who was like eleventy billion years old – in fact, I think he was on loan from the British Museum – totally grabbed SiC’s ass as SiC squeezed past him, and I wasn’t sure whether to say anything, because seriously, the guy was so old he probably thought SiC’s butt was his long-lost dog, or something. Or maybe he was just a pervert.
My parents are coming to England in four days to see whether I’ve been behaving myself (Quick! Hide the dead hooker under the rug!). I’m debating whether to introduce them to my merry band of scurvy scallywags. On the one hand, it would be nice for my parents to see that I’ve made some friends; on the other hand, it’s not unlikely that one or more of them might considerately offer my mother a line of cocaine, and then the shit would really hit the fan. My mom is such a pain in the ass when she’s on a coke bender.
Speaking of my motley crew, we now have an official title! Music Man came up with the moniker ‘Groove City Riot’, which is totally cool, although it makes us sound slightly like a 1970s boy band. The Towering Australian has even come up with a logo, which we’re all planning to have tattooed on our asses: conveniently, it looks the same backwards and forwards, so we’ll be able to check it out properly in the mirror. We’re like a bunch of junior high kids that pretend we’re a gang so we can steal other kids’ lunch money. And their cocaine. “Hand over your stash now or I’m totally going to give you a wedgie at recess!”
Groove City Riot fucks shit up, yo! Mostly ourselves!