Fuck Shit Donkey Cunts

I'm in my 20s, which is my 70s in Irish Catholic years. By this age I'm supposed to have 34 grandkids, a liverfull of cirrhosial cysts, and a fucking tombstone. I had been doing what I could to catch up. After years of habitual heavy drinking culminating in a liter a day of premium quality triple-micturated rotgut my body has been reduced to a tentative obituary. I am a walking D.A.R.E PSA. I am a pug. I am your high school friend's 1968 Ford Probable Cause that'd been Theseus'd tenfold but somehow decades later still fucking runs. He could only kill the ignition by stalling it; its horn meekly beseeched with each muffled wheeze "good God, just scrap me, I beg you"; at every stoplight it gushed noxious billows of blackened smog into crowds of schoolward children; he only kept it around because he couldn't afford anything better, and occasionally it'd get him half-laid by an annoying nipple-ringed 7 whose dad stopped calling on her birthdays.

That's my body. I've bled from every orifice, often for weeks or months at a time. I've spent years vomiting almost daily without explanation. My body aches and pains and leaks and fails. I subsist solely on a diet of septic fast-food filth, straight liquor, and hail-Mary pharmaceuticals flung desperately by doctors, psychiatrists, and That Weird Girl Who Sells You Cheap Adderall Because You Know Her Boyfriend. I spend blackout sleepless weekends vacuuming down cocktails of heart-stopping, liver-pummeling, psyche-shattering mystery substances hastily procured from This Guy From Thomas's House Thing, garbed in oversized mugshot attire fished from a dimly lit PlanetAid drop off box, who introduces himself as Munz or Q before creeping out the host's girlfriend, swearing to you that you've just GOT to check out this live Phish video, and slinking back off into the Worldstar set he rents out by selling weed to his landlord, and then I fumble my way into some sloppy, sweaty cocksleeve whose face has a name I can't remember, and who only thinks to suggest a condom 10 minutes in so I figure "alright, your hole, your rules" and pull one on, vacuum-sealing all of the Chlamydia-laden, HPV-crawling, AIDS-caked cuntjuice into my cock-pores before we just decide to do away with it again in 5 more minutes, and afterward we better crack open that other handle of vodka so we can flush you out in case my retarded double-headed precum whiskey sperm ends up wiling its way past the last guy's batch to the egg, and then I wander off in someone else's clothes to go pass out half-naked in the beckoning hypothermic wilds beside a puddle of my own bile.

But only just recently have I considered that perhaps my effort could be better focused on something else.

So hello, world. It might as well be this.