Enjoying life without a slogan, hoisting black flags.

There is a sleeve of condoms on my nightstand collecting dust. (I just said sleeve—funny! Really think about how the word sleeve rolls off of your tongue. “sleee-vah”)

A waitress served me gravy fries once. I immediately asked to have them removed. It wasn’t her fault. I live in America. I can see how she could’ve mistaken me for a glutton.

Easy is telling your significant other they’ve gained a few pounds since the two of you have been bumping uglies. Hard is explaining to humankind the masterful job we’ve done in fucking up the planet.

Deep Thought. An indecorous deep thought. . . Here’s a little more on deep thoughts: I never have them when I’m high, drunk or rummaging through a garbage can. The shit I’m thinking then is pretty fucking depressing.

Don’t present me with a problem I can’t solve—multiple choice preferably. I have a novel or two I want published, maybe a screenplay or two I’d like to see get produced. Yada, yada, yada…

Yeah, I know—young, black, pretends to know a thing or two about sentence structure… Don’t worry. I haven’t quit my day job. I can’t afford to anyway.

If you need me I’ll be next door at Misery’s.

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