“So it’s a journal?” “I fucking hope not. I view it more as a guide to a minimalist way of living.” The three of us had been discussing what we do; he'd just finished his studies in Germany, she works as a language teacher. How do I express the desire to write down the debauchery that my life has succumbed to? I tell them of forestry, of making over 50 dollars an hour, of walking around with my dogs and being paid. Then I tell them of reading literature and the desiring to read, drink, and occasionally write. The subject tending to be myself and fucked encounters. I have a good living as a forester; I have no intention of being a writer – I will fail – you will fail – everyone will fail. Never attempt to succeed, only try to survive. I bought a bottle of wine, remembered my lack of a corkscrew, and pushed the cork in with my toothbrush. I opened it in a dead-end ally in Dublin on my last night in town. The ally was littered with needles and clothes were strewn about. I picked up a hoodie and used it to obscure the bottle as I walked down the road. When I reached the park and took a pull off the wine, I smelled the sweater was coated in piss.
There is nothing wrong with sobriety in moderation.
Drinking through a hangover I find myself with a pint of porter in the men's room stall taking a worthy beer shit (attempting to write about the event between squeezes). The hardest part of traveling in cities is finding quality dive bars. If I hear California Gurls or Everyday I'm Hustling one more time, I’ll puke on the dance floor. I stand after my shit, turn to shake the dribble off my dick, and watch a drop land in my pint on the floor. I laugh.