Whiskey Juice

It might be my birthday today. I might be turning 27 or so. I might take a huge dump and masturbate in front of my window, one leg up on the sill. I might play Carmen Sandiego at the library amongst the soggy homeless. I might wonder why I hardly see any homeless women at all. I might shrug and proceed to an old timey monkey knife fight in Humboldt Park.





I might break my legs off and throw them at a cop. I might try to scurry away on my bloody stumps. I might feel a sharp pain in the back of my head and black out. I might wake up in a landfill. I might find an abandoned ukulele amidst the rubble. I might play a ballad set during World War I about a soldier who threw bread at enemy soldiers and ate grenades. And I might laugh so hard that I don't hear the rats approaching...

Birthdays are very rad.