A MATTER OF OPINION –
Feb. 24, 2024 – I am but a humble writer, a scribe of the soul, whose artistic vitality derives most fervently from that enticing she-demon, the imbibable spirit. I am “just a lazy fucking asshole who blew all the rent money on Stella Artois and Johnnie Walker.” My literary works is my humble submission to the great library of profundity: Hemingway, Bukowski, Camus, and me. Each day I endeavor to fulfill my duty-bound sacrifice when I alight to enshrine the universal truths of man: that suffering is inevitable; that life is a constant negotiation between the will to live and the desire to lay down and cease; that in a pinch a good long pull off the Listerine bottle will keep the creative juices flowing.
You say I ruined your mom’s Christmas party; I say no one perceives the reality of our Sisyphean, capitalistic desperation as clearly as I do (from underneath her antique buffet in a puddle of piss and blood).
A hangover is just an interstitial chapter wherein I explore the limits of inner and outer pain. Man’s capacity for turmoil is a bottomless well from which we leech endless, sloshing buckets of liquid suffering, and sometimes there are little chunks of food I don’t even remember eating in it.
