"I get along with guys; most of my friends are guys. It's easier to trust men sometimes. I only have a few close girlfriends that I trust."
- Paris Hilton

The door swung open on the studio apartment. The surprisingly comfortable futon couch was always left folded down, mountains of doonas, blankets and pillows piled up atop it. As we walked inside the familiar smell of tepid bong water greeted me as I poked at the ball of blankets. Reaching for the remote I flopped down on the couch slash bed and lit up a cigarette. My girlfriend at the time went to the kitchenette and started unpacking the groceries. Four bags of Chicken Twisties, four Chicken Noodle cups, four bags of popcorn kernels, two bottles of Diet Pepsi and a magazine about famous people. I still didn't know why she bought those things, it was as if by reading about celebrities, she became one herself. I didn't really care, as I took a long draw on my cigarette, as it kept her occupied and stopped her asking about where I went late at night.

As she started preparing our dinner by turning on the kettle and opening a sachet of MSG chicken flavouring, I lit another cigarette. My eyes darted to the corner of the room, where last week we had stuck pins into plastic Happy Meal toys. They were still sitting in the corner of the room, and were more than likely going to stay there until she had a panic attack that made her rearrange the whole flat. So, in the mean time, I took another long draw on my cigarette and admired the sight of a Pixar movie figurine with a sewing needle in its ribs and a Beanie Baby with a knitting needle through its head.

Wrapping myself up in a few doonas and flicking my cigarette out of the window, I started to channel surf. Nothing but sweet fuckall on any of the free to air channels but I was now too stoned and comfortable to want to get up to put a DVD on. If I had asked the crazy bitch in the kitchen to put one on for me, she would complain about having to stop trying to measure the correct amount of boiling water (by the millilitre) for the noodles, and start ranting and raving about how I smoked the last of the weed.

It would be in my interest to just shut up and watch the news.

All of a sudden I felt the need to take a massive shit. I hated shitting here, it was always very constipated and full of drugs. You know the ones, they linger on your pants for ten minutes and everyone can smell it but just acts like they can't. So I quickly hopped up and tried to walk as slowly to the toilet as I could.

"Where are you going! You can't leave yet, I only just made us dinner!" she said, stirring the MSG into the noodles with the handle of a knife. There was never any cutlery in this house. The spoons were gone long ago, either absentmindedly taken by friends or left burnt and thrown away.

"I'm going to the toilet, do we have any toilet paper?" I asked, rolling my eyes at the thought that she had "made" dinner.

"No.." was the quiet response from her, as she kept stirring the noodles with the knife handle.

I decided then and there I had had enough. Without saying a word I pulled my bike lock over my chest, grabbed my hat and walked out the door. After riding my bike aimlessly for a while I ended up near a backpackers hostel, where I jumped the fence and took a shit in the courtyard, wiping my arse with my sock. I don't think I ever saw her again. She might have gotten famous, she might not have. But in saying that, I might have gotten famous, I might not have.