Motherfucker, I will stanza your shit until you BEG for a heroic couplet. I will iambic OCTOfuckinmeter that shit, panties flyin every which way, Michael Bay explosions, Biggie comin back from the dead just to do a what-what when I pause.

…

…

Damn. A bottle of wine, depressants, stimulants (nothing illegal), and a serious lack of sleep is kind of awesome in seriously fucked up way.

Kids, do not be like me. I will most likely be found one day in a cheap motel room face down in a vomit pile consisting of doritos, funyuns, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, <insert random alcohol here>, and partially digested caffeine pills, wearing only filthy boxers and a “What Would Dirt Nasty Do?” t-shirt, with an empty wallet on the nightstand, courtesy of a Russian prostitute named Василис, who I kept accidentally calling Vaseline, and who I paid to “cuddle” because, by that time, I will be a hopelessly shattered remnant of a man.

Fuck yeah.