Page 110 - Student: dazed And Confused

us weirdo couple therapy which involves either sharing fantasies about Miss Piggy from the
Muppets, or walking a mile in each others shoes, but it's a small price to pay for my signed
copy of Bad Attitude. I call it Damage Limitation.

"It's about time you put in some work on this."
Now she wants me to alphabetise my music collection when she's massacred most
of it. Don't get woman logic and thank shit for it. It sounds kinda scary, "Why?"
"You need a system. A proper one. You'll never find what you want without a
system."
"Babe, I have a system. It's called looking through until you find it."

"I'm going to book us an appointment with Dr Thorn right now." Fine. It's fine.
Absolutely fine.

TWO

So we're driving down to the psycho-quacks office in the pink Beetle she insisted we
buy 'cos it's 'soooooo cute.' And she's bitchin' about my music in the stereo but I reckon

she's just pissed that she didn't get to this lot. Or it's PMT, or PMS, or whatever the hell
they call it.
"Look, if I've gotta sit in this bloody Barbie-mobile, I think I'm entitled to some
decent tunes." I'm trying to be all calm and rational like the bloke on the telly said. But she
gives me one of them looks only women can do - you know, the ones that contain an entire
conversation in a glance. This is the don't-you-dare-start-a-row-with-me-or-I'll-stab-you-in-
both-eyes-with-a-blunt-pair-of-scissors. Fair enough.
"We'll be late."
What is it with birds and time? I mean, if Laura ain't twenty minutes early for
everything, she's late.

"Are we lost? We're lost aren't we? You had the directions. I saw you get the
directions."
"Chill, babe. We'll get there." I put a hand on her shoulder and she just freezes. She
gives me the don't-fucking-touch-me-if-you-value-your testicles. I take my hand off her 'cos
I'm quite attached to me bollocks. She used to like 'em too but we've barely touched each
other since the CD Incident. What I don't get, apart from women in general and I never
figured out why you never see adverts for spoons, is how this all blew up from some
magazine quiz. A magazine named after a cocktail ! And not even a good one like Slow
Passionate Screw.

"We need to get petrol on the way back," I tell her. Stick to facts, it's safest. "Shove
the other CD in, will ya?" Shit, I knew it was a mistake asking that. Bye bye Def Leppard -