It’s not even Friday night but an ideal world would be one of constant, dizzying, unending party. Staggering, clad in fake leopard fur, from one party to another, pausing briefly only to ask people for cigarettes or to contemplate a kebab, or to argue about whether to walk or take a taxi, before plunging again into another party to meet more strangers and to dance and to further mix your drinks, spinning round and round faster and faster. You’re never tired, your friends never complain about having to work the next day, you never have to stop to vomit or collapse, you never have to carry yourself home and fumblingly try to remember how to operate the toaster and drink enough glasses of water before bed.


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