Was I afraid of this walk home? I can't remember. The important thing is to plow on, you'll feel good whatever you do. I'm so close I can smell my street. A sudden rush of euphoria gives me goose-pimples but I don't get cold. I look over to Dave, who I'd forgotton was talking for a minute. He is waxing lyrical about some female or other he had a brief encounter with on the dance floor. I smile and clench my fists. My palms are sweaty and I fumble for a cigarette. The initial drag makes me gag, a familiar feeling following a night on the tiles.
Suddenly I'm at my doorstep, people milling around. Before I can count them music is playing from my hi-fi and there are no seats left in the living room. There's someone in my room, his face inches from a poster on my wall, transfixed. Sitting on the floor below him, another stranger is preparing an unkown substance for consumption. Now I'm in the kitchen, a group of hard-cases have decided to use the surfaces to make lines. They offer me one and I take it, forgetting to ask what it was. Tastes like coke, but who knows. There's no space to stand or sit to take stock so I aim for the bathroom for want of something to do. There are two guys sitting in the bath, sharing headphones. They look up at me and tell me to go ahead, they wont watch. While I push a thimbleful of pee out of my trembling body I tell them that I have the correct equipment to hook up their ipod to a proper radio. They cannot contain their gratitude as they follow me through the living room and into my bedroom. I am proud of my generosity and I feel like I am leading a glorious mission. The music is thumping so fast there's no time to dance. The guys get on the floor and start break-dancing. The room fills with curious people and I sit next to someone. "Good night?" he he asks and I nod in agreement. A girl sits on the otherside of me and I try to be polite and make conversation. "good night?" I ask pathetically. She looks at me, her eyes wide and mouth moving unnaturally. "Yeah, wicked." I can't think what else to say, and before I know it she's talking to the man to the left of me. The room is now strangely empty. I get up and poke my head in the living room. There seems to have been a general migration back. Dave shouts in greeting and calls me over. Someone hands me a lit object from which I take a draw. Suddenly my face is back at the tabletop, something hits my throat. What was that? "Ketamine" he grins and I look around for a place to sit. "How long?" "about 10 minutes". I decide to concentrate on the music. Various conversations with strangers follow as bright sunlight streams through the window. Faces loom at me from nowhere and I am dancing like MJ. Pats on the back, free cigarettes, doorbells from taxis and a spilt ashtray. Give me my bed. There's people all over it. Another line and it'll all be over. Wow, this music is good.

Do you realize you only have to have been born in 19-fucking-90 to qualify at being 18? What is happeing to the world? 1990 was yesterday! 18 year olds aren't what they used to be etc etc

I sometimes think I am both Withnail and I minus the romance of being in the 60s and a completely insane possible rapist homosexual uncle. My flat and flatmates have taught me several things, which, like the virtues of marriage, are only useful in the situation that taught you them.
Newspaper is a painful but sometimes necessary alternative to toilet paper. Magazines are not. Ensure tearing it into pieces, even one page of a tabloid won't fit down the loo, so tear it into strips making sure not to destroy the funnies, as you are most likely reading them.
When exposed to steam, paint peels very easily. On this point, most things in your house, when exposed to steam will not dry out if some fucker doesn't open the window after the shower. The brown stuff that develops in the crevases of your shower WILL come off with some scrubbing, so don't bother seeing if it will by scraping it with your finger as it won't remove itself from your nail.
Bacon does cook in the microwave alright, but it's foul taste must be diluted with a microwaved 'baked' potato or lots and lots of brown sauce.
Unless microwaving lots of bacon, brown sauce lasts AGES.
It is possile to live in a flat without any gas indefinitely (well, since October) as long as you like sandwiches.
An honourable mention should go to George Foreman here and his exceptional grilling machine except he didn't count on the fact that the lazy dill-holes who will be using it will also need a machine to clean it for them. Otherwise we just gradually build up layer upon layer of grime that, like my mother's frying pan 'adds flavour' but is really just another physical manifestation of our degredation.
Girls SAY that a clean flat is important, but judging by the noises that pervade my walls and be-cushioned ears most nights, this is patently not true.
Posters might begin their life making your flat hospitable, but once they are peeling off, torn and covered in miscellaneous spray paint[?], they cease to do that. Allow that to happen and your living room wall will begin to look like the wall of Holloway tube station.
Dogs have loads of extra hair they don't need, especially ones found on the street. They also prefer shitting on carpet more than anywhere else (followed by having their face rubbed into it then being flung by the ear against the wall).
It can be argued that drugs can cause these situations, but by entering a convinient vicious circle, you can forget your filth by simply doing more.
An "Energy Efficiency" sticker on your washing machine can mean a single wash taking as long as five hours.
Henry vacuum cleaners don't do carpets. Or lino. Only ashtrays and cobwebs.
The slidy surfaces of flyers posted through your door means that they do NOT make a cheap alternative to a doormat, so stop pretending and pick them up.
Having your electricity supplied to you via a small key and card is another reminder of why your life is crap and why you must, must move out soon.
A really crap flat like mine is an excellent excuse for staying at your girlfriend's everynight, providing she isn't a bore.
Lightbulbs do need to be bought every now and again, not just passed from room to room in some ever decreasing carousel like a very long and annoying game of musical chairs.
If you haven't got heating like me, make sure you at least have a TV. Getting rid of the TV so you read more is all well and good, but if you are always too cold to turn a page, you've lost. Talking to yourself helps, or try reading children's books where the pages are made of cardboard or inflated plastic for bath times.
Keep yourself thin if you like baths - it will mean filling the kettle less.
There are so many more, but my fingers are going numb so I'm off to huddle around my flatmates cigarette for warmth. Maybe I'll fart into my blanket.