Soliitariety is not a typo, notice two "I"s....more than one...SO AT LEAST IVE GOT THAT.

This is the part in the movie when you grab all the liquor bottles and dump them out in the sink. Glug, glug as the bottle breathes down the drain. Youregunna fix yoself this time. You're gonna try. Dad couldn't. His dad couldn't. His dad owned a distillery and was pickled kosher before 9am daily.

Quaff liberally, think conservatively. Practice moderation, play indulgent.

She here now, I've always liked my women anyway they could get me. I don't date. I don't start, I end up. They sober up, I don't. They go. I wait. They drink, we fuck. I sober up. I go. They leave. Squint, blather, retreat. Cringe, clamber, compete. Mince, gather, replete. Every sicks months. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Filthy is the solitude, heinous is my company. Such is a sober life, so many soliloquies in an empty bottle singing such things as: Why do you cut you're thighs cause you think I don't love you? Why do you eat a bottle of Xanax like Tic-Tacs then tip-tap the speed dial and call me? Why do you move away and pretend we didn't happen?

Why do I like my women broken? Irregulars off the mental discount rack purported and sold to be regular relaxed fit. The thrift store of love, I always buy the suits that hung in the terminal patients room. I think they are Armani at a great price. I found out they ain't but love em just the same. Where I fail is in permanently pressing the delicate. Dry clean only denotes the need for professional help, but I try and do the job myself.

Off they've shimmied and gone crazy elsewhere. Hopefully, happy. Shithouse crazy no doubt nuts, but, happy. Hopefully, one calls for a crutch and hobbles back for a night for me to cobble them back together with conjecture, false hope, and a smattering of promise for their future. With all that I say to them said for myself.

Find contentment in the confines of all afflictions, focusing forward, pushing back, all ways moving.

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