Pictured: A couple of hot jerks being as silly as a big ol’ bag of bones. (Thanks, Tracey Lien.)

A moment ago I slicked back my greasy black hair and kicked open the door to John’s chambers, where I found him crying and writing letters to dead women. Outside his window I could see that it was raining and the sky was dark and unkind.

“Snap out of it!” I said. “Listen up!” I described to him in a succinct and frenzied and half-garbled way the Five Points of our lives going into the impending apocalypse. “You have no choice, you fucking jerk! We’re doing this!” I went on.

As I listed each point I held up a corresponding finger until all five were outstretched to form a crooked fleshy star:

  1. look disgusting on accident forever
  2. get in shape (to be able to outrun our reptilian overlords/withstand the daily burdens of doom-zeppelin maintenance)
  3. chow down some good-ass fuckin’ food whenever possible (as Gritt Calhoon would say)
  4. write until our god damn fingers start bleeding (then stop to scream at the nearest inanimate object until hoarse and resume writing)
  5. drink fine beverages that ease the usual heaviness of the mind and replace it with a different sort of heaviness (in the best circumstances)

Tonight we will ride like the wind through rain and sadness until we reach the ruby-lit room by Lake Merritt, where we will do a whole lot of number one, and a whole hell of a lot of number five. Maybe, if we don’t pass out in some blood-soaked gutter, we’ll get around to some number four.