UGH! / SOPE & VMIN.

ONE, BE LIKE LENNON.

BE LIKE LENNON.

     MARIJUANA SMOKE FLOODS the stagnant air of a flat in shitty downtown london, windows rattling with the vibration of train tracks outside, a scratched punk tape jumping around inside the tape player. the heater's fucked and it's cold in the flat, freezing british springtime, but the person smoking hasn't moved from their spot in bed, under the covers, for roughly four hours.

i'm gonna be like john lennon, he thinks, smoking the spliff like it's gonna keep him alive. like lennon and yoko. when i get my break, the interviewers will have to ask me questions in bed. imagine that: me, on mtv, in bed with a cup of coffee and a spliff in my hand. that'll be the day.

it doesn't cross twenty two year old jung hoseok's mind that, in order for him to make a break, he might have to actually leave said bed and write a song, maybe even a riff if he's feeling risky. he might have to pick up the phonecalls from a very pissed jeongguk and attend band practice, instead of sitting in bed and considering whether he should have a wank or light another spliff ( though, to be honest, he'd be lucky if he finds his cock for a wank with the amount he's smoking ). no, this doesn't even drift across his mind. he's probably a bit too stoned. just a tad.

hoseok does weird shit when he's stoned. he eats whatever's in his house ( although he does that sober, too ), asks himself weird questions, such as 'is wanking considered exercise?', 'would campaigning for prime minister make me look cool or like a twat?', and 'are the couple next door having sex or just shouting?'.

( they're totally having sex, just by the way. sober hoseok would know that. )

hoseok reaches out of bed to replace the clash tape playing with a blockheads one, sex & drugs & rock & roll playing at a pretty loud volume and making hoseok whoop. "fuck yeah, babey!" he yells, playing an invisible guitar.

it's eleven in the morning on a monday, april, 1985. hoseok really should've gotten out of bed by now, and maybe he should've gotten to work at the shitey garage with those homophobic skinhead dicks he calls his workmates. but he's wearing only boxers, smoking his fourth spliff, and singing along to ian dury, so you can tell that that isn't going to happen anytime soon. in fact, what's more likely is that hoseok will get noise complaints ( again ) and maybe, if he's particularly unlucky, he might get kicked out by that thatcher loving cunt michaels, a.k.a his landlord. sober hoseok would be concerned. stoned hoseok is not.

the landline rings again, a seventies piece of shit with a rotating dial and a curled cable, and hoseok picks up this time, just 'cause he doesn't want jeongguk and seokjin kicking down his door and demanding he show up to band meetings at least one fuckin' time, or write a fucking song at least, you're the self appointed leader, you spaz, so get fuckin' leading!

"hoseok," it's jeongguk, of course, speaking through gritted teeth. hoseok thinks this is incredibly funny when he pictures it, and he giggles stupidly. jeongguk doesn't like that much, the miserable bastard. "where are you, you spaz? you aren't at work, we know, 'cause joon told us."

"i'm in bed, guks," hoseok says, laying back on his pillows. he can almost hear jeongguk roll his eyes. "didn't fancy living today."

"you never do, you twat," jeongguk spits, but hoseok's just observing his bland home. it consists of two rooms, one room being the living room slash kitchen slash bedroom — a tiny thing with a small kitchen area, one sofa, a table with two chairs, a shit tv that barely works and hoseok's bed —, and the other being a tiny ass bathroom with rust coloured water and a suspicious looking stain on the floor. for the area hoseok lives in, it's good.