Dead Poet

I found myself, yet again, bargaining with the god Dionysus to give me relief from another hangover. It was mid heave, clutching the porcelain receptacle that I became aware of my mortality. I considered the state of my liver. My present occupation dismissed any former notion of, “There are REAL alcoholics who will live to see tomorrow.” Then again i gauge true alcoholism on the most deprave act of jackassery accomplished with the aid of this elixir. I drank to write. Truest honesty. Further, I only become hungover when i drink and write. I write alone. I considered quitting….     how can you be a happy writer. doesn't exist