hmm...

When I'm sober, I want to write but I can't find the inspiration. When I'm drunk I write things like this, coherent or not:

Stepping out the back door of the kitchen into the thunder and rain, knife kit over his shoulder, he decided to enjoy the walk home rather than spite it. Weather was not something to be scorned for its existence but rather appreciated, like work or anything else that cannot be helped, and the lightning coarsing through the vast violet sky was so brilliant that it sent the cook into a state of awe rather than disgust.

An electric flash of blue made an American flag on the armored knife kit explode with color as the grillardin walked away from it all, away from the 48 hours a week and full-time studenthood, away from the lack of love, lack of family, lack of friends. Nothing really matters, is what Queen said. Maybe they were just narcissists too obsessed with their own notes (the costumes would imply as such), but then again, maybe nothing really Goddamn matters. It's quite possible for lightning, the hot grill, the deep, skin-searing Frialator, the rain and sex and love that cannot last, the dark rum, the fake forty-thousand dollar education, the strong religious godlessness, to be the only things that people like Junior the grill cook need to live for.

It is indeed, quite possible that nothing else is needed at all. Life is it, really, and America whispers this to its dwindling counterculture, freedom seeming pointless for everyone else in a passionless era.