The words come out faster. You see, I’ve been rather miserable lately. Running around town looking for my right place. Jump into the Pacific Ocean? Return to a land where walking alone seems nearly impossible? Ay, questions just stick their ugly monstrous cocks down my throat mid-fucking-sentence. So, I swat them away with Cutco knives glued to my fingers and then scream, “Screw it, I’m here. This is where I’ll be…at least for now!” Seems to work.
When I’m drunk, I also find myself torn between the words tossed on the page and the eager individuals sending me messages on Facebook. Really, what I wish to say is, “Shut up and when can we make love?” But I don’t. I just play it nice and easy. Flipping back and forth between the massive flow of these words and whatever commonplace thing that leaves my fingertips on that social website.
The urine that builds up during the drunken process infuriates me. I’d piss right here, in your eyes, as you read this but it doesn’t work that way. I’d have to buy a new computer. Who’s got money for that shit these days? So I’ll leave you here, wondering what my urinating experience was like. Did I moan? Was there a knock on the door from a bunch of drunks demanding an orgy?
So, I’m on my merry way now. Unzipping the fly. Standing over the toilet and whistling a tune…
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