From Somewhere in TV Land pt. 1

The worlds gone black outside. A mauve air brushes its promiscuous fingers of chilled velvet across my window. Inside I dab my brain with a moist glass of wine. It's better to be a wino than a drunk. For a drunk dies, much like my grandfather, in a bed of one's own filth, crying a somber note of utter realization of a wasted life. At lest when your liver gives out from years of absorbing mediocre wine your sure to go out with a slice of dignity. I sit and reflect now. Sanctuary peaks as I recall the day gone past, wasted in a menagerie of Simpsons episodes, and megalomania's that Nick would soon come with our ticket to domination of the human race; an act carried out with burritos and phillies. There's a home made chillum made from a chess pawn sitting in my brief case. The remnants are as one could conclude as miscellaneous in nature, and arouse the up most confusion as to the reason for inclusion in our brief waft of life. I vomited only once; after realizing that white wine mixed with French liquor and gas-station hot coco isn't a good combination. My kitchen sink found that out too. I think I'll smash some Ritalin, put it in a ginseng bottle and prepare it for consumption on a date which is yet to be located, desired, perceived, or needed. But some day it will make for an anecdote to a slow day, and the medicated passenger and I will be headed into an ambush of wounded knee proportions. Our faces will illuminate as if florescent in nature and give off a hue of scarlet which would put the face of a modest young chap who has came early in his ovulating gal' by mistake to shame, (that is on a list of red faces "shitfaces-terrified".) There’s some obscene brutal home video of a couple in a trailer park poking in their meth lab suite of a home. I find out as the plot unfolds that the bitch is dead now. Some autopsy thing on the Home Box Office. We'll see where it goes after I find out why my stomach feels hot.