When Darkness Falls, He Doesn’t Catch It

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You’re goddamn right I’m still sitting at the same weathered wooden table in the back of Manhattan’s oldest bar where I just finished my first masterpiece At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed. The second I finished it, I started writing this one. I’m now 14 beers deep, and I’ve polished off an entire eight ball of yay. The phrase everything in moderation applies to everything except cocaine, booze, and prostitutes. If you haven’t read my last book then you probably won’t fucking understand anything in this book, so you should probably go buy that first and stop being poor. It’s fucking gross.

Let’s get something straight, my life is so important that you should be grateful I’m even doing this. Seriously, do you know another motherfucker like me? Me neither. So let’s get down to brass, in the last book I told you that I was going to off myself after completing my life story. That still holds true. My trusty handgun is still loaded next to my Remington Rand typewriter that Hemingway pissed on, and you know the fucking bartender isn’t going to cut me off, so I’m going to sit here and keep writing my memoirs until I finish. To answer your question, no, I haven’t gotten up for bathroom breaks. I just piss on the floor.