So my experiment to stay continuously drunk nine days straight has hit a slight snag. Occasionally I keep passing out and waking up sober. Everything is now refined to staying drunk at least 80% of the time, during PM hours. And I think I’m at least halfway successful in that respect.

Of course, being smashed and going to the supermarket to buy liquor has concurrently lead me to a very important discovery: the Potato Jacks brand of chips is an eerie tribute to Ruffles, the high school favourite of years long passed. I ate a bag and wept with joy.

That was until I made an even more important discovery today. Y’see, when I was living in Melbourne and Daimaru was still around, I was able to buy Peanut Butter M&Ms from there, imported from the States (you US folk don’t realise how lucky you are having this plaque-happy treat at your beck and call). For the last few years, I’ve been searching for a Sydney retailer who stocks them, only to find that a convenience store mere minutes away from my place has been stocking them all along. Christ, they’re good.

I’m at least balancing out my drinking with an awful lot of walking, though. This morning I woke at the arsecrack of dawn, and walked across the Harbour Bridge and back (getting across to the other side was way more complicated than I’d planned). Oh, and I also paid a visit to the Taxi Club this afternoon, mostly because I had a free drink card. I was swiftly reminded why I never venture into this oddball gay RSL-esque venue without already being drunk: I was promptly assaulted by seven drag queens conducting an elaborate drinking game to Totally Wild, which was scary enough without the children’s TV show element: we’re talking about drag queens so dedicated, they’ve gone to all the effort at 4.00pm on a Tuesday afternoon.

However, they were still pissed enough to all chime in and abuse me with some fabled drag queen brand of vitriol, revolving around me “pretending to be straight”. Apparently my fatal error was wearing a baseball cap. I’m lost on this one. The fact that I’ve paid money for a membership surely singles me out as a faggot, right?

Perhaps they had sonic drag queen mindreading powers, and could sense my obsession with boobs. You see, our new bargirl at our local pub has knockers like two bloodthirsty zepplins dragging the rest of her body through the air. And be damned if I won’t add that rack to my Collection of Boob Feeling Experiences. I shall prevail.

Really, I don’t care what anyone says. Liking boobs doesn’t make you slightly bi. Boobs are just fantastic, full stop (unless they’re hanging off an abusive transvestite). Who’s with me?

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