Yet another bloody hangover pounded my head as vision rippled into focus. I stumbled immediately out of bed, feeling the world swing on its axis just once more out of spite and padded my way to the bathroom. Last night had been pure debauchery, a lovely binge drinking session through Camden with Daisy and her mates. "I love you Constantine," she'd said as we stumbled into bed, giggling and feverishly tearing each others clothes off. Well what else are two run of the mill 21 year olds gonna do? Play chess?
I smiled as I looked at my hung-over face in the mirror; the bags under my eyes were a trophy of a golden night out. While I brushed my teeth to get rid of the not so golden taste of last night, I noticed that my ginger roots were showing through the copious amounts of violent bleach in my hair.
Fuck it, I thought spitting my toothpaste into the sink, I picked up an unsmoked spliff from the side of the bath, obviously untouched by the ravages of last night and headed into the living room.
It was yet another beautiful day of unemployment, I sat myself down on the rowing machine I'd stolen off the back of an Argos truck four months ago ( Best investment ever!) and sparked up the spliff. Of course I made sure to slap a mandatory dose of Jeremy Kyle onto the T.V as I was rowing. There's nothing quite like exercise and smoking pot you see, both activities help me to think, I keep fit and I avoid the pot smoking stereotype. But nonetheless I love the smell of pot and as I rowed, sending tiers of misty smoke drifting up through the morning light I began to think about what the hell I might do about Daisy who was currently dribbling on a pillow in my bedroom.
You see she isn't my girlfriend, oh no, I'm afraid of commitment you see. Nothing but failed propositions and insecurities. I wasn't always this way though it only takes one you see? The thought of her still keeps me awake at night.
TEXT by Edward Keeble + IMAGES by Imogen Scott