(untitled)

I lie down and pray to my masochist mother. With one hand on my crotch and the other on my heart. That in the end I get off my knees, wipe the cum from my chin and actually have the balls to be a man and not just another punk rock poser that sells his soul to the highest bidder and kills his misery with another shot of bourbon to the heart.

Well, Bukowski's liver gave out and Thompson blew himself up and I'm sitting in this bar with two thumbs up my ass while singing songs about masturbation and believing that I'm better than I really am.

Every loser has a story and I have a novel of rampant alcoholism and chronic masturbation, trying to prove to world that I'm not just another failure, when I know that it's a lie and I'd whore myself out to another trick with loose change and a spare cigarette sing Tom Waits tunes while they beat me.

So instead of doing something
with my life, I'm drinking cognac from a dirty glass and daydreaming of pornstars and good weed while pretending to work for minimum wage and looking down on people I consider to be less intelligent than me.

Well, if Arnold Schwarzenegger can be governor of California, then Ron Jeremy can be president and I can be the UN ambassador to a third world country where the women walk around topless and won't laugh at the size of my penis and the liquor never stops and I can finally die in peace.