Time spent with Mary, Jack, and Jose

I think I'm falling in love with the idea of being a starving writer. Mmm how wonderfully romantic. I think I would lounge around at home writing all day, sipping margaritas and ashing my Ls in an old, stale cup of coffee. My eyes would be red from fatigue because I stayed up all night writing. Don't want to lose the inspiration. I'd attend parties frequently, the life of the party because of the stories I concoct. I'd slosh down a white russian or a jack and coke, inhale deeply, and spin tales of wild entertainment. Witty banter would hang in the air like smoke and everyone would sip their cocktails.1

The next morning I'd wake up in some beautiful stranger's bed. His delicate face would lift off the pillow and wispy auburn hair would fall in front of his dark eyes.2

Of course, perhaps he isn't a stranger and I simply like to pretend I have forgotten who he is in moments of immense inebriation.3

I would return to my little run down hovel or downtown flat with an all too realistic hangover pounding through my head. I would stumble inside, ignoring the scattered books and the old cereal still on the kitchen table, or what little wasn't obscured by old magazines, junk mail, and drafted manuscripts. I would collapse on a single mattress on the floor [no need for a boxspring] and sleep it off. I don't really have a job so it doesn't really matter what I do with myself from day to day anyway. Just as long as I make the rent each month...and pay the electricity bill, which I haven't, which is why everything is dark.4

I'd still write though. I'd stick a long, thin, white taper candle in the neck of a Jose Cuervo bottle and write to the glowing purity of my muse. I'd become transfixed at the smoke spirals floating through the air and maybe gently sweep my hand across the floor to find my whiskey bottle and take a swig.5

My life seems depressed, but it isn't, by any means. I have sex, drugs, insanity and money. And my passion, writing. So it might be dark as I scribble in a journal or maybe a cocktail napkin and I might not eat often unless I successfully nick an apple from a corner store, but it's a good life. It's bohemian. It's what I dig, man. Who can argue with calling your own shots and living life the way you want to fucking live it?6

Fucking live your life.