My sister’s boyfriend-guy said once that, after I’m dead (hopefully any day now), he’ll pour one out for me at the foot of my statue where all the unsleeping freaks and creeps hang out, which will be in some city of eternal night, real or imagined. And what would he pour? The $3.99 bottle of wine I get from Trader Joe’s, the one with the pig on the label, which I have referenced a billion times in a billion stories on this fine web destination. Maybe my statue would be holding a bottle of this cheap bad wine. Maybe, at my feet, would be a little cyclone of stray cats, who are my friends when I go a-walkin at night. Maybe my face would be warped into this hideous sad expression, which is the face I make when I’m alone and exhausted and desperate in the dark!

Thanks dude.

BUT LET’S FACE IT: Hain’t gonna be no statue, thank god! I’m not cool enough. Like three people on this entire planet think I’m cool, and all three of them are dead wrong. Plus I don’t think there are gonna be any statues anymore period unless they’re erected out of empty milk jugs or twisted ribar, or human bones, or whatever, what with the whole god damn world ending and all that.

Well, what the hell. Just go right ahead and pour one out for me anyway. I was born lonely and I’ll die lonely. I imagine I’ll be lonely in death, and god knows I could really use the company.