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…