Oh my god, last night was terrible. I got together with some friends at a pub to have a few drinks, and I was planning on taking it easy, but somehow we ended up in someone's apartment. They had a lot of booze, and they were just giving it away, so it seemed rude not to accept! Long story short: I vomited everywhere. Literally everywhere in the apartment. The guy had an expensive vase, I vomited into the vase. I vomited onto all the canvasses he had in his studio, into his laptop computer, onto some albums he had of some of those rap singers they have now. As I was vomiting I ran for the bathroom, occasionally slipping in the road of vomit I was paving for myself. I finally got to the bathroom and I stopped vomiting, so I turned to the sink to wash my hands (which were also covered in vomit), but just as I was drying off on a towel I heard someone shout "no! That's the cat's feet towel, not a hand towel! If you dry off vomit on that, the cat's feet will have to stay wet when it comes in from the garden!". I didn't hear it too well though because I felt the sick rise in me again and I vomited onto the towel, into the sink, until the sink was overflowing with sick. I closed my eyes and an image of Jesus flashed before my eyes, for some reason. Then I collapsed in a heap, dry heaving, tears streaming down my red and horrible face.
Luckily, someone filmed it, so we can both use it as part of an art project. It will be called project-ile: vomit. We are on a mission to reboot the discussion about what constitutes the elusive concept of art, but now in a post-Bahktin universe.
Oh, Glasgow.