What was I thinking, sitting at home drinking. The whiskey and bourbon rose straight to my infuriated temples. I got a tattoo that branded for me life, it says I am one of them, another self made subordinate to the inescapable system. My frail wrists ache and bleed with the weather. The dull edge to a cunning cryptic knife, dismembering my fantasies with reality. I beat on the neighborhood bar stools with stale desire and accumulating frustration. The thick black smoke of wasted years and delirium tremors caught up with me. Ginger and Jack, take it all back, I'll have a heart attack. Fill my raw stomach with empty peanut shells and bad timing.
Sports and the weather, fuck the weather, I'll take the weather girl in her push-up bra, her knees could use some work though. I'll endure another miserable conversation or two with this primitive inmate on p-pod. Shit, there ain't nothing else to do but stare at the luminous soda vending machines in awe. I'll attempt to have another nap, If I can bear it. "What they violate you for buddy, a dirty urine?", he says to me, "Simple assault", I says to him, "I've been through that a thousand times", he says to me.
It's all one big sarcastic joke on me, and the punchline consists of a black, a Jew, and an Indian. Afternoon juice pack boy, where'd you get those sneakers, I'll trade Sunday dinner and a rolly for one of them? County to state when does one find a moment to masturbate?, is it in the public showers?,. I'm pretty sure you'll get your ass kicked for that.
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