What you think of Bukowski. He was an asshole. And he knew it. But he speaks to me. When I feel like quiting, joining the army, flying back to Iowa, to Kansas. All I have to do is read some Bukowski. And I know things can get worse. But I’m no where near as tough as Bukowski. And that scares me.

The girls looked good from a distance, the sun shining through their dresses, their hair. But get up close and listen to their minds running out of their mouths, you felt like digging in under a hill and hiding out with a tommy-gun. I would certainly never be able to be happy, to get married, I could never have children. Hell, I couldn’t even get a job as a dishwasher.