Pickles and cheese for breakfast. Hungover. Not sure why I felt so bad last night. Glad that I didn’t throw up in the elevator. And to think that me and Irish whiskey used to be such good friends. Two bottles of it for Christmas. Should make for a hazy January. My love will be gone for a month, and without her our apartment is just a place with stuff. January sucks anyway. Nobody likes it. Pickles and cheese for breakfast. I’m almost 26 and I can’t cook. I’d die in an apocalyptic emergency. Unless other survivors have a need for bitter humor, and will somehow trade me food for observations and things I hate in pop culture. Aged cheddar and dill with garlic. I had an idea for a poem this morning. I haven’t written it yet because my poetry skills are akin to basketball abilities of a geriatric. How does one become a better poet? I feel that asking the question guarantees an explicitly simple answer:
“If you have to ask, then you’re not going to ever be a good poet.”
Pickles and cheese for breakfast. I need a coffee. I need to brush my teeth. I need to learn how to cook. I need to read more and sleep less. I need a direction. I need to finish Christmas shopping, and I need to learn how to become a better poet without asking how.