Everyone says I talk too much; honestly, I don't think I talk enough. There's a difference betweeen 'talking' and 'slabbering'. 'Talking''s what the sane amongst us do, and 'slabbering' is what the rest of them do. Yakerty, yak, ya-- fuck this shit. Who really cares if Billy got with Mandy on top of their porch last week? I fucking don't, nor do the sane amongst us, which is funnily enough me.

    Last week, I decided to try dope for the first time, and hell, it's nothing like what they say. I actually feel smarter, sharper and happier. Unless of course, the dope is actually coke. In that case, it would make a fuckload more sense. If it is, I ain't saying shit; coke at dope prices, who would say no? A sla-

  "Michael, are ya up tere?" My Mother's irrtating voice grates through my senstive ears. I sigh. Doesn't the woman have anything better to do? "Mi-cuulll!"

  "Nah, I'm downstairs scrubbing the floor and kissing ass."

  "Really?"

  "Of course not."

  She climbs up the stairs; it sounds like seventeen stone of mutton cunt slapping against a beached whale's body. And that is some fucking tune. Blip, blop, flip, clump. It's taking me back to my Preschool days. Clump, clop clu-

  "Michael Robert Shanagan, what in God's good name d'ya tink yer doin'?!" She wails like a banshee caught in a closed door. Does the bitch ever give over?!

  "Enjoyng myself?"

  "Fuck the Pope!"

  "D'ya need condoms?"

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what kinda ungrateful brute have I raised?!"

   She knocks the blunt right out of my hand and onto my messy carpet. Whore. The ashes spill right onto my favourite checkered shirt. Monkey cunt! I slap her across the face; she retaliates, knocking me into next week. I get back up and chokeslam her into next year. I jump out of my bedroom window singing George Michael's freedom. My month long grounding is now over. I'm free, Bitches!

  Crruunccch!

  Fuuuuck!

  " 'Ey, fall out boy." I look up. It's Ferghal O'Callaghan aka The Ginger Minger. Fuck him and his toad spawn. "What da craic?"

  "My cock up Keeley's hole. Why?" I smirk. He growls and walks on; twenty-one nil to me. Talking about his missus ticks him off. Glad I discovered that early. Did I just say missus? I swore I saw her head stickin' out of Brucey's Kennel the other night.

  I pull myself off the ground in an insant, feeling nothing. Odd. I felt like a bag of steel encrusted shit a few seconds ago. I run down the road, into my Uncle Paddy's newsagents and head for the loos around the back. Jeepers O; it smells like a elephant shit itself ontop of the world's supply of methane gas!

  "Eugh." I grimace, staring at myself in the mirror. My facial fatures say it all. "What did ya clean the toilets with? Manure?"

  "Actually, he did. I seen him." A suave voice replies from behind. I jump slightly at the dark figure creeping up behind me. Reaaal mature.

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  "Your conscience."

  "If you were, you'd reek of weed and be fucked up ta' the eyeballs."

  "Michael, I know you think you know everything."

   "I do."

   "What's the capital of Vatican City?"

   "The city is it's own capital."