Bring it on, Calendar.

I think, instead of a writer, I'm going to become an alcoholic.

I know, I know. It's not as easy as all that. Hell, I've tried before, and failed. The headaches. The expense. But now that I've quit smoking, I somehow learned to like beer. I can drink one rather fast. I can drink two rather fast too. And that's gotta be the first step. I can get myself a little tipsy every night. Easy. I'm watching a lot of Burt Reynolds movies. If I watch enough, soon I'll be able to listen to football on the radio. Eventually, baseball. Then I'll be up to a six pack a night. And I can switch over to the hard stuff without noticing much.

I think I'll be better at being an alcoholic than being a writer. I seem to enjoy it more. And it's natural. Failing as a writer leads to a life of disappointing solitude. Disappointing solitude leads to drinking yourself to sleep. And so, the circle of life.

My calendar, it says on Friday, "Epiphany." It came with that, you know, typed there. Officially. Right above "First Quarter" with the little moon slice. I don't know what it's doing there, but it's damn good timing. I could use some fucking epiphany. Bring it on, calendar.

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