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:
- look disgusting on accident forever
- get in shape (to be able to outrun our reptilian overlords/withstand the daily burdens of doom-zeppelin maintenance)
- chow down some good-ass fuckin’ food whenever possible (as Gritt Calhoon would say)
- write until our god damn fingers start bleeding (then stop to scream at the nearest inanimate object until hoarse and resume writing)
- 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.
