Drug money

So you know how I was going to be a Writer's Fest volunteer, and I was going to swish wine in a comically large but still commonly used glass whilst laughing pompously without any real mirth, all the while schmoozing with various writers that are well known and whatnot?
Yeah, not happening. Karl Marx would be appalled at me, but I am chasing work hours above schmoozing.
I figure there's next year, so you don't get a scathing expose about the Brisbane Writers Festival (likelihood I'd have had anything scathing to say isn't high, either, so we both win, right?) and instead you'll probably get treated to my work hours and what it's like to be a waitress.
'Kay? 'Kay.

Anyway, between yesterday and today, not much has happened. Once again, I have resumed my role at Beadles, and we established that the bag I picked up and took inside with nary a thought (and now I'm checking if I actually said those exact words yesterday, because if I did, you're going to call me uncreative, but I didn't so we're cool) actually contained a PlayStation.
Before you start seriously questioning Chris and I, saying, "Do you not watch My Family, possibly one of Britain's finest comedic efforts? YOU HAVE TAKEN MAFIAC GIFTS!" don't be alarmed. I do watch My Family, one of Britain's finest comedic efforts, and I know the Mafia are tricky and try and lure random 18 and 19 year old siblings living in Kelvin Grove into their grubby little clutches with PlayStations. Chris owns the PlayStation, and one of his buddies did some uberskillzors ninja work and got up onto our apartment's floor, and left the bag neatly at our door as a Thank You For Letting Me Use This.
However, when Chris got home, I was lying on the couch like the slob I am, and aimlessly using a guitar to navigate the PS3 store. "Kid," I said, "I think I may have accepted drug money."
Chris looked more amused than panicked. "What do you mean?"
"Well," I said, "there was a bag outside our door and I took it inside without checking its innards."
Now Chris just looked slightly concerned. "Where is the bag?"
I gestured to the table.
Chris dug inside it, and excitedly pulled out his old PS2. In triumph at not accepting drug money, I let the boy spend the $30 I was supposed to spend on a present for a friend.

And then later, the drug money - whoops, PlayStation - became relevant again.
We were playing Fireflies (Owl City, mock me and I attack) and Stanley was nearby, looking at our skill. "Hey Tash," Chris said, "can I have Sirius in my room?"
"Heck no."
"But I don't have a computer."
"That is no problem of mine!" I continued strumming.
"You can have the PS2 in your room," Chris said, strumming to a higher calibre than I was. "But I get Sirius."
"Done, if you call him only by his name and change no settings."
Chris fled to my room, shouted, "YOU REALISE YOUR PADLOCK IS COMPLETELY REDUNDANT BECAUSE YOU'VE TIED IT AROUND THE CABLE NOT AROUND SIRIUS?!" (which is true, I just keep it on to look fierce and pretend I live somewhere like Nimbin where Macs named Sirius are routinely sold for special cookies) and carried Sirius to his room triumphantly.
Stanley and I are confused at Sirius's absence, and we don't like seeing my Word of the Day screensaver in Chris's room. No offence to the lad, but something so obstinately English-nerdy is out of place there.

Ahh, technology.
Where would I be without it?
Now to go eat noms. Whatever they end up being...