Morning, daylight. A bad attempt to remedy a seemingly invincible hangover. Headache, bumps, bruises, stubble on my face. I look like a zombie out of a knockoff Romero film.
I contemplated fashioning a gun out of a paperclip, a three inch piece of string, and a banana peel. With which to shoot myself in the throat, but decided against it when I realized that I still had more Evan Williams to drink. A bad reason to live, but a reason nonetheless.
I though heavily in the late hour last night about all of these people i'm forced to comunicate with day to day; I pondered while sipping McCormick vodka on all of the beautiful, lovely women that had the misfortune to have known me. The toll taken was a question of self demise, is it selfish? Being alone (mentally) isn't so bad I suppose, but it sure does feel empty, and lonely.
January is right around the corner, my anniversary was last month, and I only have five more cigarettes; oh the life I live.
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