2003-05-18 at 12:05 a.m.

I once read a play by existentialist writer Jean-Paul Sartre called In Camera. It was based on the idea that hell is not some fiery underground dimension of sulphur and brimsone, but is, in fact, other people.

During my doings in the past forty-eight hours, I have been confronted by a surprising amount of people who will almost certainly be part of my Sartre-esque vision of Hell.

The Female Comedian who performed as part of the Melbourne Comedy Festival Roadshow, whose entire act consisted of talking about underpants and sanitary pads, and playing the accordian.

The group of Extraordinarily Beautiful and Nubile Girls I wound up drinking with at the pub last night, around whom I looked like Margaret Thatcher (except without the penis).

The Girls Holding a Party in the house behind mine, who all insisted on singing/screeching that hideous Nelly song that goes 'Even when I'm with my Boo/All I think about is you' at the top of their lungs. (And what the hell does 'boo' mean, anyway? I can't help thinking of some guy sneaking up behind his girlfriend and yelling 'BOO!' at the top of his lungs. Forget flowers and chocolate, startling your loved one is the ultimate in romance).

That Woman at The Matrix Reloaded who spent the entirity of the previews screaming, 'We want the fucking film! Start the fucking film! We want the fucking film!'

The Sixteen Year Old Boy Off His Head on Jack Daniels who accosted me last night, complaining that some guy was after him and had stolen his hat. That wasn't the annoying bit, though- it was the fact that he kept apologising for how drunk he was.

'Dude. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm drunk'.

'Yes. I am aware of this. The alcohol fumes seeping from your skin are a bit of a giveaway'.

'Sorry. I'm drunk. I'm sorry'.

And, finally...

The Mouse that has Taken Up Residence in the Laundry Cupboard that Set Off the Mousetrap I had Set in There, Managed to Escape, And, as an Exercise in Revenge, Pooped Copiously on Every Single Shelf