Hang Onto Your IQ.

Do you ever have the feeling that everything is just lovely?

I just mean, sitting still where you are and watching the world go by, or possibly your pet tropical fish up close and personal, and just… feeling right. Just watching things without any cause for concern whatsoever, just letting everything float about while you float about in your own hazy bubble, content, because you know everything in the world has perfect ying to the yang and dinosaur crap turns into diamonds eventually?

“Aled.”

Do you ever have that good feeling in you, really feel it in your insides and your head and your face and smile widely, face pressed against the glass of that wonderful fish tank? Do you ever just feel like everything here is just the way it is supposed to be, and even if it isn’t, not to worry, because it will be soon…?

“Aled!”

Do you ever have the feeling that the cool breeze just brushing past your face is in fact the breath of God? And that you, yes, you, for you are after all a beautiful and unique snowflake, are being contacted by Him? And… he’s telling you that he loves you. Do you ever feel like you are becoming at one and interlocking with the forces of nature, the divine beings of heaven and--

“Aled! Fuck sake, dude!”

Something on the back of my neck flutters lightly and I am beginning to be taken away from the beautiful waters and the bright world of fish. I am beginning to be brought back down to…
“Earth to Aled. Earth to Aled. Oh mun… he’s fucked, inne?” I hear vague laughter somewhere. Perhaps it is behind me.

“Aled. Have you got any smoke?” Aha. And there is the question that can indeed pull me from my adored fish, though I still adore them so. I turn my upper body around to answer the question, but then think of the fish and turn back quickly, sending them mental whispers through the power of my brain, which I imagine right now to be covered in small flakes of shimmering glitter…
I blink. What the fuck was I just thinking? Sparkly fish and the cosmos?! I don’t even like fish. I don’t even have fish. This tank is full of plastic children’s toys that Shay and Jamie brought round on Sunday morning, along with raging comedowns and several pornographic DVD’s.

“Earth. To. Aled motherfuckin’ Philips.” Finally I turn properly to see the boy speaking to me. He has hair whiter than a conservative priest and long, thin, pianist fingers. I start to wonder why my brain chooses to pick up on vague, obscure physical details about people, but his thick, loud voice penetrates my train of thought.

“Aled. Do you have any smoke?”

“Um…” My voice stumbles out of me, not even a word, just an involuntary expression of an inability to speak properly. “…Why yes, I believe I have.”
The whole room laughs again and I smile dazedly, wondering if their laughter is directed at me. I feel sure, without minding very much, that it must be, but then again the THC that I know I am feeling the effects of may be coming into play in another way, as a causation of paranoia.

I realise I have no idea what causation means, or if it is even a word. Oh well, it’s just another line floating through that glittered skull of mine. There’s no one who can see inside there, so there’s no one to pick at it and tell me I’m a fool for inserting it to the sentence that it was a part of.

Anyway… my hand is slipping into the depths of my pocket and searching around for my favourite thing in the world. Eventually it comes out, like a nancy boy sliding out of the closet in a little black dress.

“There you go, boyo,” I say proudly, and my voice is not the same as the one that speaks in my head.

“Ah, has Lord Shottington buggered off then?” Sniggers the blond. I pretend to understand what he’s talking about and smile politely, my eyes slipping comfortably shut. I feel like a young child, with an uncontrollable urge to hide underneath my mother’s skirts and hug her perfumed fabrics close to my bosom.

“Aled?” He says again. “Don’t disappear on me, mun.”

“I’m not, I’m not,” I insist lethargically, waving a hand around in protest at his almost-accusation.

“Tell me about this green then, mate. Tell me about my portion of THC for today, Doctor Aled!” Sean never talks when he can shout. It’s one of the many reasons why he will never be permitted to use the formal title of stoner.

“This portion of THC, Sean, is a wonderful one,” I tell him softly, a small smile spreading once again across my face. My cheekbones are ever so tired. “This portion of THC is a much larger portion than you are used to, my boy. This portion of tetrahydrowatsit is so wonderful it will give you visions of fish in the cosmos.”

There are another few chuckles from the corner, probably from Jamie, Rhys and Layla, but I can’t be sure because I don’t even know if they’re still the people who are here. The only way to find out would be to lift my head from the sofa and look, and I can’t possibly comprehend that idea in my current state.

“It’s trippy?” Sean asks bluntly.

“Yes, my lover. It is.”

“Lover, eh?” He chuckles cheerfully, as he begins to tear a piece of card apart to aid him in the rolling of his joint.

“Fuckin’ gay!” Exclaims a voice from the corner, and I smile sleepily. Like you can talk.

“Who’d you get it off, then, Ay?” The boy asks me. Oh, more talking… this boy is always talking. He never quietens or seems to cease of ideas for things he can and apparently must express verbally.

“Snoz and Loz,” I finally manage to tell him, my eyelids heavily sinking over my eyes.

“Ah, Mr Gareth and Miss Charlotte,” He says in a musing voice.

“Yeeeees,” I reply, before turning and snuggling into the sofa further. Sean probably has more questions to ask me, but it’s tough luck for him because I’m out for the count. Or I soon will be. It’s a funny expression, that, really, it makes me think of sheep and…