I'm writing to you from the Internet. MY Internet. It comes in a box now, slow as fuck but operational. Can't go wrong. Just another thing to distract me from my true path in life, that of the drunk, unpublished writer.
I'm off the gargle though. Honest to jaysus. Sick of the brutal mornings, their placebos and headaches, the memory holes, the fear and the fuck ups. I'm weary of all that nonsense. It's weird what a period of sobriety will do. I already frown on the inebriated, believing myself better by way of my abstinence.
Surely some day soon I'll be lowering lager beer in the Stags, making plans while life runs away from me, but for the moment the tea will do. Oh that's tea alright.
So I'm here in the flat, after a steak dinner, with an old episode of Friends troubling me in the background but I'm too stuck in my seat to go in search for the remote. So far, so humdrum. Did the hoovering today. Washing up now. Yeah. The....old.....washing....up. Dum de dum.
Fuck it. Better tackle it. I hate that baked on grime.