A man needs time to drink. To think. To write. So as to be himself. Or who he was meant to be. I haven’t had that. So most of my thoughts have been scrambled. Or pieced together in dreams. And most of my writing has been piecemeal. And still waiting for editing before it is presentable. As to the rest, I haven’t really been myself for a long time. I haven’t had enough booze and I haven’t had enough people and I haven’t had a fucking wingman. Ah yes, the memories. Back. in the. day. There was a time once. There was. I remember it now, fondly. But I will not speak of it now.
Regardless. I am more of myself when I am drinking. And fuck all the bastards who say drinking is bad for you. I doubt many of them have amounted to shit. They can all go fuck themselves on the goddamn Washington monument. Bastards. I mean, fuck damn, everyone knows that only the good die young. So don’t moralize to me about how I am headed for an early grave what with the drinking and the rest of it. I am too young to give a shit and too old to listen to bad advice. Or whatever. (Take another sip of the martini. It will make the bad man go away.)
This is all I’ve got until I can get into my notebook and other pages and do some edits. Smile. Be pleased. Touch yourself inappropriately. Take another drink. Go back to bed. Sleep through something important. Without a care in the world.
Ah yes. That. I remember it fondly.