Qu or K. Que; entropy... viva!

Gav is missing, the VCR is broken and a computer recording just called the house representing the telephone company to warn us of the impending service disconnection. A serious downside to living with unemployed, drug-addled fringe-dwellers who have a bad habit of going missing is that between their unexplainable absences and their incoherent days it is hard to find the time to get the bills paid.


Things are not holding together too well...


A couple of days ago whilst I was running late for work Mark, clad only in flannel pyjama bottoms and fluffy slippers rushed out in front of my car as I reversed out of the driveway. Panicked and turning blue, almost naked on a day so cold the frost had fused my windscreen wipers to the glass Mark ruched around to the driver's side window:


MARK: Dude, what are we going to do about the phone bill it is huge and way overdue?
ME: I've got to get to work man, I am running seriously late can't this wait?
MARK: Not really man, I've gotta get back up to the snow today. Should I try and squeeze some more out of my credit card? I don't know how far this is going to stretch!


So he's worse than broke and making another trip out to complete the video which from what I recently saw consists of three hours of Mark prowling around the Falls Creek local pub with his camera asking girls to show him their lower back tattoos and some footage of three drunks tripping on magic mushrooms falling off their snow boards and hurting themselves which was shot in the middle of the night by Mark whilst he was too wasted to hold the camera steady.


In the meantime... the house is starting to give way to entropy and no matter how much I clean I can't seem to hold back the chaos. Everywhere I look I see empty Coke cans, deflated wine cask bladders and mangled cigarette butts clutter the room. The corner of every room is being suffocated by growing piles of discarded junk mail and ever dish I wash is somehow replaced by three more dirties in the sink by morning. The air smells of mouldy food scraps, damp towels and sweat and I don't have the energy left to resist this filth.


Mark gets on speed and stays up for days, every light burning a permanent mark into the night. He stays up downloading amateur bare knuckle boxing videos, extreme sports and the odd spot of rape porn, he watches the television at the loudest volume possible and decides to clean vacuuming the floor around the piles of detritus at 4am. He has no money and has had to resort to scamming crisis packages from the Salvation Army, hitting a different office each week and making away with sandwich bags filled with coffee, white sugar, condensed milk powder and armfuls of stale bread, slightly old sausages and cheese slices.


There is no money spare for rent but he's got an ounce of pot sitting in a snap-lock bag on our coffee table.