Never Too Late!

Never Too Late!
any resemblance to anyone real or imaginary is mere bad luck
we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are trying to get up


(S)wine said [somewhere in the comments below]
I shamelessly steal from Bukowski:
--What do you do?
--Nothing. I drink. Both.
Smoking is not as fun as it looks, kids. Unfortunately.

I don't trust air that I don't see, I glibly say. Here in the city you have to protect your lungs from the exhaust fumes. And I light up another one and force that smoke down into my asphalt lungs.

Drinking, and I mean really drinking with conviction, drinking to get drunk drunk drunk, like blanking that chick who's grinding her ass into your lap in order to go in search of another reeking cheap whiskey or conhaque nacional, I mean drinking to stop your hands shaking in the morning, drinking like Bukowski and Chinaski and all of them, I mean being a fucking drink-sodden, say it: alcoholic.....

...that, conversely, is actually more fun than it looks. Experienced from the inside, as it were. Because it looks fucking ugly from the outside.

Don't worry about the blood on your jeans, you won't remember where it came from, and your nerves are too shot to feel the pain... don't worry about being a total disgrace and losing any last semblance of dignity, either... keep drinking and you'll only remember in surreal flashes... all of life will take on a rather Philip K. Dick sort of aspect, what with the random black-outs, the time out of joint, the discovering yourself in the strangest places with no idea how you got there.