It sucks reading Bukowski sober. I mean... 'I guess I'll have to'... Cuz, I am sober. But how much better would this be, With a couple of Dad's horse pill Vicodin. Chemical clouds of crystal synthetically fogging the room. A shot of round whiskey- washed back by a Corona with a fresh lime off the tree in the backyard. All smoothed out by some of that California, recreational, above board- Mar-i-juan-a. It's not called weed anymore! It's "marijuana". And I'm not sneaking out of the house to drive mom and dad's passed down Ford station wagon to meet some guy in a truck that some guy at school knows who gave me his number and told me to meet him in this parking lot and to bring fifty bucks. For an eighth, An eighth of what? Don't worry about that, Just bring fifty bucks. I get in his truck, Or did he get in mom and dad's car? It's been so long, I can't remember. All I know is I gave him the money; '