This part of me. I know itʻs destructive. To my detriment, I can read. I know liver cells die. And I am one of the hopeless who read and inculcate that a glass of wine a day is good. So 18 must be really good. My life is an exercise in trading risk. I like being fucked up. I like fucking. Turns out these may not be conducive to longevity. Narcissism wants as much as you will give it. All of the time. Turns out that everything all the time might feel good, but is less than ideal for keeping the flame lit. There is this pull. What feels right (i.e., go to the gym when you really don’t feel like it). And how I feel now. How I usually feel. The gym is a box on the checklist. Defined pectoral muscles increase your chances of fucking. But those moments at four a.m. and the alarm. They forget you’re trying to fuck.
Consolations of the Worst-Case Scenario