mr-onion's Diaryland Diary

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Flying Barbies and The Chelsea Poisoner

I still haven't left town, but soon SOON. I've asked my old friend Matt to fly over from New York to meet up with me.

He doesn't forget so easily and might be a bit squeamish about meeting me anywhere. He knows that I still have revenge on my mind; that's why we call him the Chelsea Poisoner.

When Matt got a job at the chain of shops where we were held prisoner daily, I finally knew the bosses had taken my suggestions to heart: "hire more hot staff or I'll walk". He was a Finnish/American film student and smelled like caramel and all of us were kind of in love with him. Then one day in an awkward attempt to get friendly, I took him and some other co-workers to the local pub in Chelsea.

I almost swallowed my own tongue as he bought me pint after pint of lager....all night long...and even the pints I bought for myself he offered to get at the bar. My inner voice said "Oh-yes, free beer and a hunky man, you are smokin' tonight". Conversation got more and more heated round our table and I felt a bit flushed and excited, then more flushed, more excited, then more like botulism poisoning. Dale had to take me home with him, as I couldn't walk very well at that point. Waiting on the Tube platform I got sick; we hopped on the first train, had to get off two stops down, got sick on the next platform, caught the next train, jumped off the next train suddenly so I could puke again.

I don't remember much except crying on Dale's shoulder on the platform "sorry about your shoes. I'm sure it'll wash out". He dragged me back to his house, flinging my arm over his vomit-crusted shoulder to help me walk properly. Dear little Dale, he let me sleep in his bed while he slept on the floor. I woke up after 15 minutes of peace from the heaving and wretching and badly needed to rid myself of all my internal organs.

It was pitch dark in that goddamn room and I didn't know where to step off the bed, but if I didn't move in 30 seconds, Dale's room would've gotten unexpectedly re-decorated with bits of my gall bladder. So launched myself off his bed and I think I stepped on Dale's face in my mad dash for the bathroom. Made it to the bathroom sink with a moment to spare before the next eruption of vomit.

As I opened my eyes the next morning, I thought I must still be in some sort of nightmare. Flying Barbie dolls with wings glued on their backs, their heads dipped in glitter, all around me, long-necked blue glass cats with corks on their heads, massive picture of Kylie Minogue on the wall, extra makeup painted on her face a la Warhol, glitter balls piled in a heap, obscuring the window, and plastic fruit everywhere. Dale's room is the last place you want to wake up with a hangover; he did the window displays for our shops and kept the extra bits for his own private art.

The next day at work, after I stumbled in with mascara round my mouth and lipstick in my hair, Matt admitted that he'd spiked every last one of my pints with double shots of vodka and inadvertently given me alcohol poisoning.

I know where you live Matt and I'm very very patient.

12:42 p.m. - 2004-08-17

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