The fat girl has fallen down the stairs

and won’t get up, so we’re stuck on the first floor, chatting and idly observing the efforts of the well-wishers below. “What did you talk about last time you were stuck somewhere?” asks N. I don’t know the answer to this question, so I say “did you know that pro wrestlers always exaggerate their height by about two inches? It’s true. But what’s the point?” The fat girl wails and informs us that her ankle is broken. R points out that “she wouldn’t have broken her ankle if she hadn’t fallen down the stairs. And she wouldn’t have fallen down the stairs if she wasn’t drunk and fat. It’s simple.” Then he takes a swig of Strongbow. Someone tells the fat girl that her ankle definitely isn’t broken, and we’re happy to accept this diagnosis, if only to spite her. Someone else helps her up and takes her to a bedroom to rest, to "let the bones heal," clearing the way for our descent at last. We celebrate this victory by staying just where we are.