The Writer Who Does A Lot Of Drugs
He grew up pampered in a suburban home with a lovely collie dog named Sunshine, all flowing hair and gentle nips and barks. His parents sprung for piano lessons and Little League uniforms, school trips to Europe and the finest apparel that Mr. Hilfiger hath ever wrought. He was a typical boy, but somewhere inside burned a desire — a desire to CREATE.
So he spent his afternoons composing poems — lusty poems to the busty girl next door, who shunned his advances and laughed at his overactive hormones when they reared their ugly, er, head at a school pool party. Reams of poems littered his floor and harddrive, and soon he shunned the trappings of Tommy H. and instead opted to don the garb of his predecessors: the bowties and flowing mantles of Rimbaud, the towering coif of Bob Dylan and, inexplicably, the glistening grill of ODB. Then, like any aspiring poet who wishes to successfully break into the literary world, he went on to attend a liberal arts school in a secluded location.
When he finally matriculated into the real world, he attempted to finally pen the poesy that would make him beloved, revered, immortal. To do so, he drew upon his deepest store of pain: that same girl who rejected his sweaty advances so many (like, 5) years before. However, when he submitted what he thought solid poesy to literary journals and poetry slam organizers, he was met with haughty rejection. “You have not lived!” the editors and organizers said. “Move to Berlin for a while or something and then get back to us.”
Having not the resources or the time to uproot himself (and a bit of trepidation about living in anywhere described as a “squat”), the young writer opted for the shortcut to artistic enlightenment: Just doing a shitload of cocaine. “He took it in cabs, he took it on fire escapes, he took it abandoned science labs, he took it and painted seascapes. He took it in chairs. He took it in doorways. He took it on mares. He took it on poor days.” In case you were wondering, the above was both of description of where he took said cocaine and the nature of the resulting poetry that he wrote.
Soon, his “arrestingly honest” work was snapped up by the literary public, who made him the poster child for malcontent, malaise and a particularly bitter martini sold at a local watering hole for scribblers. Needless to say, the ladies came… well, not running, but at least sidling up with calculatedly disinterested miens.
Still, the now worldly wordsmith found himself unsatisfied by the legions (well, probably more like 4) of fans who came to worship at the alter of his learned lit. They were sweet, yes, lovely, in a weird way, but multifaceted — no, the facet was in the singular sense. No page was well-wrought enough for his bookmark. He grew despondent about his perpetual state of lonely loving, and thusly turned his pain into another chapbook, titled: “I am a margin and you don’t know how to scribble.”
“What cruel irony,” he often lamented to the barren walls of his simple abode, “That I was alone as a youth and alone, now, as a revered genius!” Thus, he took to the woods to live among the moss and the mushrooms, which turned out to be his undoing, as he ingested a particularly poisonous variety 10 minutes after setting up camp.