"To hell with reality! I want to die in music, not in reason or in prose. People don't deserve the restraint we show by not going into delirium in front of them. To hell with them!"
If an uncaring attitude is subject to utmost enlightenment, Céline must be the Li Po of the 20th century.
Work is nearly finished. I spent my day reading Bukowski and drinking coffee. Wonder afternoon I must say.
I've made a pact with myself tonight, you'll be happy to know. I will not go home and get drunk off of cheap whiskey and eat an entire bag of chips, which i've had the tendency to do lately. And why? Because your alchoholic narrator is attempting to escape the tormenting dreams that have been haunting him as of late. And because he has a blister on his finger that looks similar to an asshole missing its buttplug, with no explination for why but that he was too drunk to feel the heat on the car lighter.
So while you're sitting next to your fireplace, trying to stay warm and chain-smoking the night away, the next drink you toss back, drink it for me, because I don't get to drink, because I made a stupid pact, and this is the worst run on scentence in the history of mankind, so there.
...booyah...
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