Head Wounds, Hot Things, Sharp Things And Wood

So I got drunk again and I guess it's March now. I don't expect you to believe me when I say that this time, this time, I will blog for real, but I'm gonna say it anyway. I love ketchup chips and I would not tell a lie.

Nothing all that interesting to report in the last few months, actually. A depressing lack of stories, and no stories that involve relations with adventurous women, archaeology or even, i'm sorry, autism. I have, however, been reading Martin Amis, and he's now my new favorite blah blah blah literature, blah blah blah unreliable narrative, the human condition, etc.

Society is crumbling, and all I can think about is drink and pornography. I used to write poetry, but I realized that I could stop forever when I woke up to find this note from Sym on my myspace page:

We totally slept together last night. Too bad you were wearing your shoes.

Best. Poem. Ever. Actually, I stopped being a poet when I realized I had a myspace page. I never really knew if I was a poet, or just some kind of degenerate, or really some kind of hipster in disguise, so I did some soul searching and my soul was all like:

Fuck you, Asshole
I'm drunk as a motherfucker
And my hair's a mess

Thanks for checking in, and we'll see if I can't post a little more regularly.