by Roxane Hudon
Last night, with a flag tied around my neck, sprawled on the sofa in front of my big TV, I turned to my roommate Katie, and said: “I’m stagnating, man, Montreal is a cesspool, it’s a fucking cesspool.” She answered that maybe I was just suffering from a POST-FRINGE down. But no, I was on a FRINGE HIGH, now we’re back sitting here, broke, wondering if we should go out, because that would be DOING SOMETHING, but really, all the parties have the same DJs and the same crowd of losers high on Ketamin and I’d probably just end up crawling back home, full of hate, with a phone full of melodramatic sent text messages about how I hate society. So, instead we sat there, in front of the TV, as if we were watching something, but really, the TV was shut and I played this on my laptop and we sang along to the chorus. Eventually, we decided to watch The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, an endless, ridiculous movie during which we both fell asleep, only to awaken once in awhile to see Robin Williams’ floating head or Uma Thurman in a giant seashell. And then Shawn came home, expecting a party, only to find me, fully dressed, asleep next to my copy of Game of Thrones. “Fuck this! Let’s party!” So I stumbled out of bed and we drank Tremblays until 5 AM, filming ourselves bantering, thinking we’d share these very clever videos with our enormous fanbase, until we re-watched ourselves, sounding, really, quite pathetic. A cesspool, man, a fucking cesspool. Au moins, on rit.