He's a prolific son-of-a-bitch, damn near as magnificent as the sun.

I have spent the day eluding a colossus of homework, reading "Love is a Dog From Hell" by Bukowski, and generally being irresponsible with my time. There is a certain satisfaction to being anti social as of late, with nothing to drink but pot after pot of black coffee, and nothing to eat but near rotten oranges. Was anyone going to tell me how different the world looks without money in your pocket? The cold, the strangers, the empty sound that buses make. Its all covered in a coat of exciting, prospective danger. Being broke is sort of romantic they say, but i could argue being perpetually poor is not. Yet I feel that the more I lack, the more creative I am forced to become.

"Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink" -Bukowski