I am paranoid and belligerent. You?

How I stumbled once drunk into Mary.

A writer’s life is a sentence.

After the picnic, more beer.

Clocks. They annoy.

When I die I want to decompose in a barrel of porter and have it served in all the pubs in Ireland.

Is it OK to pray for an orgasm?

I like to waltz in.

Take it for Christ’s sake and get drunk!

Large beer. Please. Shut up, Mom.

Ha, ha, drink up, death deliverers.

A milky, cold smell…