Ray Chinaski stumbled into the can to take the first of six beershits that morning.
Fuck, why do they make benadryl containers so hard to open? You have to go find a fucking knife to cut through the foil, and that's the last thing I want to do when my concrete-packed sinuses are weeping for chemical relief.
I think I've finally killed my immune system, because it's been five days and I'm still sick. I just want to be whole and sexy in time for my vacation this coming weekend. I can't tell you where I'm going . . . let's just say it's an undisclosed location; I wouldn't want those Al-Qaeda fellows to find me and force me to eat carbohydrates or something.
I only listen to two songs now, and those are "We're Just Friends" and "Pieholden Suite" by Wilco. Both are very sad and leave me with a sedated melancholy feeling all waking and sleeping hours. But my pal Rishi Arora has a new musical project called Signal Hill, and they have some very good songs which have been spiraling through my head all weekend, and perhaps therein lies my salvation.
I think I've talked about Achewood here before. It is the greatest comic of all time. But it recently got even greater! because I was reading some old strips today and he dropped in a reference to Chuck Bukowski, the man who convinced me that alcoholism is cool and desirable. Most excellent.
Ok I'm done.