i drank a fat tire this weekend.

My bitches, what can I say? I’ve been sucking—again—for a while now. But what do you expect? Things have been s-l-o-w around the homestead. I have never known such boredom before. I think this has a lot to do with the fact I no longer have An Doof Ass around. You see before I discovered the soft embrace of silk undergarments and the necessity of botanical face creams, I was nothing more than An Doof Ass’s roommate. But the funny thing is I was never this bored when I lived with him. Some might think that because of his rampant alcoholism all one had to do was open a bottle, stand back and enjoy the show. Well, that’s mostly true. But even watching him from the window as he stumbled around Trumbull Avenue rubbing his hairy monkey belly and trying to steal a soccer ball from young, young children got old after a while.

Okay, you’re right, it didn’t get old. But even An Doof Ass would occasionally wake up “too hungover” and swear he would never drink again. So during this hour to hour and a half when he wasn’t drinking he had to find something else to fill his time with. Usually it was drinking. Sometimes though he would try other things to get his mind of his aching skull and his swollen, red face with its hideous bulbous nose. He found great pleasure in sniffing markers, eating glue and, what he called, “the cultivation of orchids,” which, of course, was nothing of the sort: His “orchids” were empty bags of Spicy Cheetos that he’d taped to pipe cleaners and planted a rusty cooking pot filled with glass shards and bottle caps.

Sure. He was a complete dumbfuck, but he meant well. After his orchids—inexplicitly—began to wilt he spent hours carefully watering them with olive oil and covering them with tinfoil (he believed very strongly in the healing powers of shiny things.) But then the inevitable happened. A couple of days later, while Adam was passed out in the bathroom, the flowers caught fire. Boy the dumbfuck cried hard that night. Harder than usual. Harder then when he found business cards proclaiming his “skills of an assassin” didn’t make him an assassin. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven himself for those flowers. I don’t think he ever will.

I miss that stupid dumbfuck and his hideous bulbous nose. Who knows what kind of absolutely astounding activity I could be watching take place if he was still around.