The panic is getting to the point that I cannot control it. Xanax, valium and bourbon are my medicine. I want a fedora. When it rains my blood bubbles and bone chips go around the room lighting candles. Several dogs are following me.

Maybe they will make me into glue when I am dead.

I hope to see a new movie soon.

Fuck your bloodless coup.

I’m somewhere dark, bathed in cold and being beaten. Someone is kicking me in the side, slamming a hiking boot into my ribs over and over, creating small stress fractures that are destined to build into a series of serious breaks. A shattered rib could bend inward and puncture a lung, but I can’t worry about that right now. Someone else is punching the back of my head. They’d be going for my face, but I have my body curled up like a fetus. I didn’t take this protective posture on purpose; my body just did it on its own. I’m bloody and sweaty and awash in the techno music pouring from the bar these guys carried me out of and all I can think of is her dead smile.

Last night I read Beyond Good and Evil and wept.

Then I drank and wept some more.

I don’t want to tell you the story of how I started drinking. It isn’t one of those cute, instructive stories that teach an important object lesson and gently inform about the human condition. The whole thing is largely pointless, lacking even sturm und drang. If I told you, you’d likely be bored by the whole thing. You wouldn’t learn anything, and nothing would be illuminated.


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