Late, late week update.

Sorry for the late update. I wrote this short just now, slightly intoxicated and very sleepy... (or vice versa.) I hope it makes some sense, because right now it looks like gibberish. Any interpretations are welcome. More shorts to come next week, and I promise not to leave them to the last minute ;) Spent the majority of the night discussing, with my mates, songs to be included in the latest Triple J Hottest 100. A generally popular track seems to be, this one by Angus & Julia Stone. Pretty nice sounding (each post is becoming more like a music blog... look for album reviews next week ;) )
Well, either way, enjoy the story.

Drunk; and home, for better or worse
By Tim Harvey

I laughed as I sat in my bed, or lay in my bed, as it were.
I was still drunk.
The party was over, my friends had left , the taxi had dropped me home, and I was still drunk.
I snickered and laughed.
The feeling consumed me as I stepped through the front door. Three am, and I snicker.
As I fall through the door, my mind flexes, twisting as it hasn't for two weeks, twisting as it hasn't since the beginning of Two-thousand and eleven.
My hand dives into my Mother's handbag, fondling and fidgeting, twitching with pain as I realise I've been saved.
My hand rests against her purse as I think, 'There are no cigarettes here.'
The thought rocks me, and I laugh. I spent Friday surrounded by smokers and those who didn't smoke, giving me high-fives because I quit. My identity, once so wrapped up in tobacco, now defined by avoiding the substance.
My hand quivers and flexes as it searches every nook and cranny of the handbag.
Moments ago, I had resigned myself to lasting only two weeks. Two pathetic weeks. I think of the one thought that had kept me from smoking in those two weeks; 'I haven't smoked, this year.'
I laugh and my body shakes, and I leant against the handbag, resting against the wall in the kitchen. I let out a sigh, a sigh as if I were releasing a trapped gas, a sigh as if I were inventing a new emotion and testing it out. My lungs heave and I rest my head against the cool faux-leather, giggling, relieved. My hand darts back to my side, my bare chest dripping with sweat and my bare mind dripping with the desire to sleep.
I had changed, my clothes lying on my floor. When did I get home? Standing in the kitchen later. Much later.
The dog pants restlessly at my heels and I swoop him up in my hands and clutch him to my bare-chest. The mini fox-terrier in my arms pants with the heat and tries to lick my face.
I hear a groan from the hallway and briskly step over to see what is happening. There is no fear within me, my house is usually crowded, and no-matter what hour it is, or how drunk I am, I expect activity.
My sister stands at the end of the hallway covering her eyes. I stand in the kitchen holding the dog, covering my chest, and little else.
“Somebody rang,” I comment, the fox-terrier clutched to my chest.
“Yeah,” my sister comments back, her hand over her eyes.
I realise at this moment that she had groaned at me.
I was wearing only a pair of grey briefs and she was not accustomed to seeing me in anything less than shorts and a tee-shirt.
I felt slightly empowered by the situation, I must admit. I was free, and she was blind, however I shuffled into my room and let the dog down gently.
“Who's here?” I questioned.
“I dunno,” she responded, hand still over her eyes. I thought about that hand. It meant she obviously hadn't seen me half-naked before.
Fair enough.
Despite my usual, occasional, drunken binges, she hadn't seen me sans pants.
Fair enough.
But she didn't peek. She didn't give up, despite me entering my room and closing the door. Her hand remained firmly over her eyes. What does that mean?
She isn't afraid of me, no. She isn't disturbed by me, hopefully. She is innocent.
Hopefully.
I breathed a strong gust of thoughts out of my head, and with it, my drunken mind abruptly let go of the previous chain of ideas, and my mind went blank.
I was in my room, in my underwear, drunk.
I smelt of dog, I smelt of beer, and I was home.
Why didn't I smell of cigarettes, what year was it?
I stood in my closed doorway, I heard the dog trot down the hall, that bastard always came to my door, why?
As I sat in bed, lay in bed rather, my mind drifted.
I thought of the advice my friend had given me that night; “Dude, just grab her hand.”
I pondered that, my mind darted and drifted like a moth that was... that was... well... drunk.
I tried to think of the context, I tried to think of what I'd told him, I tried to find the words that had drawn that response from him.
My mind recoiled, and I drifted to sleep for a moment. Focussing, abruptly and instinctively I tried to place the words.
“Dude... Just, grab her hand.”
“Grab her hand.”
I didn't know when, I didn't know why. When can I do that? When should I do that?
I want the answer. I need that answer, but I fear it is something for me to discover. Please tell me, please let me know if that is what should happen. Release me from this doubt and... just tell me. Goddamnit just tell me.
I feel like sleeping.
And so, I slept.