Very much vodka and too much tequila: those are the ways I learned to deal. Across against the light and the sleet scalds my sight, stunned I stayed put and a billboard truck runs over my foot. So things are really hopping; and my unemployment's stopping; and my kitty cat's copping; and I need to forget. So I go to the window and smell a cigarette.
Now I'm in the clutches of my crutches: I'm laid up, and I sip from my cup, and I look outside. And I see Christopher Hyde-who just got divorced, and there's a restraining order enforced-going in his ex-wife's garage. I'm just drunk enough to open the window, yell out gruff:
