Waking up to car horns in a tiny apartment with little to no sunlight next to an almost empty bottle of scotch around noon on a Wednesday. That’s how he had always imagined it would be. All those Bukowski and Hemingway stories had made him understand that glory could only strike like lighting in a stormy night. It would come only after endless nights of cheap alcohol, chain-smoking and sporadic meaningless sex with equally drunken people. Only after surviving all those muddy waters, his muse would call upon him, and his luck would do a 180 degree turn. He’d be rich, and would have to constantly fight the unwanted attention. He’d be reluctantly famous for that one glorious novel, and would retreat into the woods to feel the despair he felt in his twenties, when he anonymously wandered around the streets of New York, or Chicago, or L.A., or whatever big city he had lived and had honed his writing while working odd jobs on the side. For he knew it was only then that he could write again. Only then, when that hole in his chest would open again, waiting to be filled, he could write like he did in his almost starved youth.

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From SCZ, Bolivia. Now in SLC, Utah. Here to read, write, and complain (in that order). I write fiction, humor, and some essays.

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