So, you know, if I get screwed because I blew off my old job and it turns out I don't get this new one, maybe I can STILL be the next generation's Cliff Clavin . . . living in his mother's house, going to a bar every night, and STILL not getting any.
{{What do you say to a girl with two black eyes?
Nothing, you've done told her twice}}
OK, so here's the plan. I'm gonna get a hot novel published by 25, make shit-loads of money and then go into seclusion. Once there, I'll let every addiction I can think of consume my being. Alcohol, cigarettes, weed, blow, COFFEE even, and completely rot my insides. I'll be a shrivelled, shiverring, red-eyed recluse with almost no ties to the outside world whatsoever. And, the world will find my decomposed corpse in the woods somewhere with a needle in my vein and a totally righteous final work pinned to my body at the age of 27. Being the most famous, most worthless washout the literary world has ever seen; leaving a SPECTACULAR corpse will be my gift to society.
Just so long as I don't bloat up like Jim Morrison, dying in a bathtub in France.
All I need is some hippie-artsy-fart chick by my side, revelling in my bohemian ways, to tell my tale. With red hair, possibly from Europe, but NOT from Ireland.
Of course, she'll have to be someone who's lived in the Pacific Northwest and has the good sense to want to move away; who can't understand why Steve Buscemi isn't a bigger star; who drinks and smokes and fucks like I do then takes care of me afterward; who's read The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and wants desperately to be a Merry Prankster in another life; who appreciates the intricities to a dozen different live versions of Jimi Hendrix performing "Red House"; AND has good lookin' sandal feet, because where I'm going, you DON'T fucking wear shoes!
Current Mood: Lungs craftily coated
Current Music: Smashing Pumpkins - The End Is The Beginning Is The End