I was a sloppy, fall-down drunk and chainsmoker for twenty years, the kind that woke up in puddles of vomit. No friends, no job and no recollection of the past two decades. Twelve steps later, I’m sober with four or five pals and a “respectable” job that’s as miserable as it sounds. But every day I drive by a gaggle of decrepit old dudes slouching in crumbling lawn chairs, knocking back cans of cheap beer, playing cards and sucking down loosies, and I must exert event-horizon energy levels to stop myself from pulling over and joining their ranks forever.
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“I write to impress my 99 year-old aunt who told me my work is ‘weird and unnecessary.'” – the writer
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