I'm aliiiiiive! Long live the T-cell! I've been laid out horizontal for the last 4 days, at war with the flu virus from hell. Today is the first time this week that I've been able to read and write without causing brain damage to myself. Come to think of it, it's been a week of consistent brain damage, thanks to some glorious stacks and drunken antics down in the Snowies. I spent the weekend living it up at Blue Cow, trying to remember how to ski after not having performed the act in 10 years, and enjoying the love of the Westside massive in what was undeniably the biggest bender of my life. Out west they like to show you love by holding you to the floor and forcing you to drink spirits straight from the bottle, despite slurred protestations that you're already paralytic and can't even stand up to take a piss... or something to that effect.

Anyway I felt the love and even got to give some of it back at the end of the night when I generously projectile vomited on a friend who was trying to tuck me into bed for the third time, ruining her favourite pair of jeans. I haven't hurled like that since I drank a whole magnum of cheap champagne at an end of semester philosophy party. I remember the Nietzsche video making more and more sense as the afternoon progressed, and having great intellectual difficulty walking home to my ice-cream bucket. Which I promptly filled 4 times, no less. Since that profound moment of exorcism I've been unable to even sniff champagne, that nasty bourgeois plonk, without turning green. The Neech would've been proud.

But I have to say Philosophy Piss-up 1997, had nothing on Slope Invasion 2002. This was debauchery of the purest kind, a la Antonioni's Blow Out, minus a few prostitutes and deaths. And in the highly competitive "I'm sooooo drunk" stakes, vomitting on Teresa's jeans actually put me one up on everyone else. I had miraculously, gained some uber-male cred for soiling designer female clothing with my highly flammable bile. Yet despite the accolades of the morning after, guilt pressed itself upon my heart. Before I could even sober up, the jeans had been washed and sterilised, there was nothing I could do to atone. Should I offer to buy her new jeans? That would be one very expensive hurl. I settled on a more pragmatic course of action, and vowed to lie in wait for that fateful day, when I could return the favour by proferring my trouser leg at a time of great need.

Ah, such chivalry is worthy of poetry...