I'm Bryce. I am now twenty, and still exactly the same. I am actually a character from a Charles Bukowski novel made flesh by the mysterious power of E.E. Cummings poetry and filterless Lucky Strikes.
My body is a filthy place, full of rotting flesh, half digested meats, and the acrid smells of tobacco and tar. My brain is dying from drug addiction. I sometimes lose all my motor skills and bladder functionality. I'm a bitter, misogynistic old man, and I've never felt better in my life.
1 comment:
Hi! I can't believe that I found a man who is near my age who likes Breakfast at Tiffany's and Funny Face! Hope that we can be friends!
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