Andrew was another guy I met at the same era as Ted, during the first year of uni. Unlike Ted, we stay in touch from time to time, where he tells me of his exploits in New York and Seattle, whether it be the trials and tribulations of trying to be a playwright or his mental girlfriend raping him in order to impregnate herself so that he'd have a reason to stay with her.
Every single one of Andrew's e-mails were an absolute gem. If I could write like that dude could, I'd no longer worry about my supposed skills as a writer. This boy could WRITE.
Example: for his birthday, myself and a group of his closest friends for that year were given a script. We read the script in the kitchen of the halls accompanied by wine, beer and vodka. The script was about his birthday, being sat around a table with his closest friends for that year in the kitchen of the halls accompanied by wine, beer and vodka. The only difference between reality was that none of those involved ended up performing any of the political acts mentioned in the script. It was a powerhouse tour de force of Nietzsche-ian philosophies and alcohol. In the script, I overtook the government and became Prime Minister. Cool.
I've got video footage of Andrew looking longingly at this girl called Amanda, in case anyone's curious.
I think Andrew was the only guy where we all got together and made a kick ass going away present for him. I think the fucker cried. How sweet.
Either way, here's to Andrew. I hope that one day when I go to Seattle, he'll be living his dreams. Or fathering a child he never wanted.
