THE JESTING FOOL.

NO PIX IN THIS POST YA FUCKERS
I didn’t think I was going to finish that, but I did. By no means am I talking about this bottle of whiskey. Can it really be possible that I’ve been drunk every night this week, despite the fact that I have to go to work every morning? No, that can’t be possible. Should I be writing right now? No, not likely. What should I be doing instead? Sleeping. What? Sleeping, you shithead. Oh. Yes, you’re probably right. I should be sleeping. Why did you drink all that? What? I said, why did you drink all that? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What the hell are you talking about? You heard me. Yes, which is why I asked what the hell you’re talking about. I’m talking about that empty whiskey bottle. Like I said before, I’m not talking about that bottle. Well, the bottle’s empty. Yes, I can see that. So why did you drink it? I didn’t. Yes you did. No I didn’t. Well, then who did? My older brother. You don’t have an older brother. I just made him up. You can’t just make up older brothers. Why would you want to make up an older brother like that? To get you to shut the fuck up already. I’m not going to shut up. Yes, I can see that. You should think about sleeping. I am thinking about it. So why not go to bed? Because I have work to do. Work? Yes, I’m writing, can’t you see? Of course I can see that you’re writing. But you don’t have to write, do you? Yes. I have to write. Why? Because that is what I do. But don’t writers need to sleep? Sometimes. Well, go to sleep then. I can’t. Why not? Because I’m writing. Fuck! You are so bewildering sometimes. Sometimes? Okay, all the time. So what should I do about that? I don’t know, maybe get out more. What does that mean? Go to bars, meet girls, hang out with friends. Friends? Yeah, you know, the people you like to be around. Those are friends. They’re nice. Okay, sure, so I’ll get out more, maybe later. Later? Yes. As in, not right now, because I’m writing. Jesus. You are so obdurate. Obdurate? What does that word mean? Aren’t you a writer? Shouldn’t you already know what it means? You fucker, just because I’m a writer doesn’t mean I know all the words. Obdurate is like stubborn. Oh, okay. So you think I’m stubborn? Yes. So what should I do about it? Go to bed. Not now, I’m writing. Fuck! You write all day, why do you need to write now? Because what I write at work is different than what I need to write right now. How? Well, at work I write what other people want me to write. Right now I write what I want to write, it’s a therapeutic thing. What do you mean? I mean I still need to vent, to express myself, to postpone my destiny for a little longer. Destiny? Yes, destiny. What the fuck does that mean? You’re the one who just mocked me for not knowing a word; do I have to explain destiny to you now? No, dammit, I just meant to ask what you mean by saying “postpone your destiny” like that. I mean writing is how I defer death, that moment in time when the entirety of life surges up, pierces the consciousness with a burst of evanescent understanding, and answers every existential question with a brief pulse of lucidity before collapsing into lifeless sobs. What the fuck are you talking about? You heard me. Yes, but I don’t understand you. Yes, that’s because I’m a writer and I don’t want to be understood. Everyone wants to be understood. Are you a fucktard, or did you not hear what I just said? I heard you, and I think you’re just hiding your true feelings. True feelings are the very reason why I’m staying up to write, as opposed to retiring to my bed as you suggest. You should sleep now. Yes, I should. Are you going to? No. Why? Because I’m stubborn. Ha, that’s what I thought! So? Well, I mean, okay whatever. So writing helps you defer death? Yes. How’s that? Didn’t I just explain it to you? Yes, but do you really think you would die if you couldn’t write? Yes. Really. Yes! Why do you think I stay up late to write? Why do you think I obsess about every single word that gasps its way out of my blurry mind? Why do you think I drink the whiskey in the first place? Maybe to forget the depression? No! No no no! Depression is not why I drink! Despair is the essence of life; I drink because I want to enhance the very nature of life itself, to have a chance to capture it with words. If nobody was depressed, the world’s breweries and distilleries would shut down. You don’t drink to ease depression, you drink to depression, you drink to rejoice that it exists! Oh, okay, if you say so. I say so. Well then. Have you considered going to bed sometime soon? No. Right. That’s kind of what I thought. I don’t care what you think. Obviously! I might as well leave for all the attention you’ve been giving me. Well, leave then. Seriously? You’re just going to kick me out? Yep. Bye now. I’ve got writing to do. Really? Just like that, I’ve got to go? Yeah. Just like that. You fucker. You never even cared in the first place. Nope, not really. Hurry up, I’ve got work to do. Jesus. You’re going to work yourself to death. Yes, most likely. God, you’re impossible to talk to. Okay. Can you please go now? I’m outta here. See ya. Okay bye.
CONGRATS, YOU MADE IT TO THE END, AND YOU’RE NO BETTER OFF FOR THAT FACT, HOORAY.