Dead Men's Trousers

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A disquieting rivulet of sweat trickles down my back. Nerves jangling; fucking teeth slamming together. Sitting bitch in economy class, crammed in between a fat cunt and a jumpy pissheid. Couldnae get a business seat at short notice and now my chest and breathing are constricted as I pop another Ambien and avoid the eye ay the drunkard next tae me. My troosers are too fucking tight. I can never find ones tae fit me. Ever. The thirty-twos I’m wearing now constrict, while thirty-fours hang awkwardly and look shite. Few places do my optimum thirty-three.

To distract myself, I pick up my DJ Mag and my shaky hands turn the pages. Too much fucking booze and ching at the Dublin gig last night. Again. Then, flying intae Heathrow, a heated exchange with Emily, the solitary female in the trio of DJs I manage. Me wanting her back in the studio tae master this demo I love, her having zero confidence in it. I pushed it and she kicked off, causing a bit ay a scene, as she sometimes does. So I left her at the airport, boarding my connecting flight tae Los Angeles.

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