Things are bad for me. No gallery wants my work. No agent wants my book. My boyfriend dropped me. My wife doesn't like sex anymore. Well, maybe she does, but not with me. Maybe I can't fuck her anymore. My house is falling apart. I'm a househusband, kept, tied down, and my kids are turning out to be selfish pricks. One's a fat selfish prick and one's a narcissistic selfish prick. And why do I dote on them so? Why did we get a dog? I hate it, but I take care of it. That's it: I'm addicted to taking good care of things I hate and things that hate me.
Maybe I should find Jesus (again) or drugs. Maybe I should live alone and drink wine hidden in a paper bag. Like Jack Kerouac did. WWKD? What would Kerouac do? Get drunk, close one eye and pretend his best friend wasn't blowing him? Ha.
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