flossing the cat

So we all make mistakes, right? Here’s mine. Last Saturday, I stayed up until 3.30am, drinking. Now for some of you, this is normal. For some of you crazy-ass party bitches and crack hoes , 3.30am is an early night.    But just to put it in context, the last time I stayed up until the wee hours doing drugs n'shit, was during labour. In the beginning, I thought I’d gotten away with it. On Sunday morning, despite flushing a sock down the toilet mid-morning (normal, right?), and a mild to moderate hangover, there were no obvious symptoms of brain damage. But then, at around 3pm, something happened. Something bad. It started with a 'conversation'. “The bins out, your turn it is. Fucking knackered, I am”, I spluttered to my partner, who was shuffling around the kitchen at the time, with no discernible sense of purpose.   “Me Out Go Now” he said, descending into a kind of protolanguage not heard since Paleolithic times. You see, in less than an instant,