I thought I'd come and ramble, in a fit. Too much drink and I'm dying. Hungover and lifeless, wondering how so many of the greats managed to manage this shit. Chandler had his runabouts, and we all know how Bukowski swam in it, but I'm wondering how these stalwarts managed to work despite the haze and nausea and all the flooding shit. How can
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i'll stop kissing up now. it's just . . . damn. how do you come up with the shit you do?
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step two: ???
step three: literary profit.
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Please tell me you aren't actually drinking? At least not that much all of a sudden - I thought you quit?
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