J. Pants comes in and sits down. He cocks his hat back and plops his boots on the top of the table.
"I've been reading your fucking blog. Jesus H-Christ! You've been writing a lot of depressing shit!" he says.
"I'll try better." I reply.
J. Pants looks at the ceiling, pulls at his red suspenders, and purses his lips.
"I don't fucking believe you." he says.
"Why not?" I ask him, innocently.
"You sorry bastard! You like what you've been doing!"
"The lousy writing?"
"Yeah...lousy writing, lousy goddamn lifestyle -- too! It is like a drunk who gets off on being a fucking drunk AND THEN THEY WRITE DRUNK MONOLOGUES ABOUT BEING A FUCKING DRUNK!"
"I did that once." I admit.
"YOU'RE FUCKING RIGHT YOU DID!" says J. Pants.
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