A Bit of a Problem

(best if read like Joe Pesci)

I got a bit of a problem. I like to self-destruct. It all started when I was 43, when my wife left me. Said I was around too much. Can ya believe that? Said I was smothering her. Can ya believe that? The gall on that broad. Yeah, I had a little drinking problem but she, SHE had a spending problem. And a little crustacean problem, if you catch my hint. But that’s what happens when you SLEEP WITH HALF THE FUCK-ING TOWN. Ya see why I drink? Ya see why I gotta fuckin’ drink? I gotta continue being the bad guy in the story she tells everyone. Like the milkman. Yeah, we still get that guy. Yeah, she banged ‘im. Ha ha. No, I’m lactose- intolerant.

Anyway, I come home one day to find a completely empty home. I mean nothin’, save for one fuckin’ thing. I find a note on the door, but I’m too busy seeing fuckin’ red to read it. I got an idea of what it said, though. “Lay off the booze, dear. I need my space, hon. I’m sorry for giving you crabs, darling.” I made that last part up, because the BITCH didn’t gimme the common courtesy of admitting it was her. Wha, you think I gave ’em fuckin’ to her? The only time I see a fuckin’ fat rabbit is my birthday, and that’s a fuckin’ maybe at best.

So she left me and the first thing I did was steal a car. Some sporty Italian thing a jerk-off buys when they wanna impress their daughter after winnin’ one of those lottery scratch-off gimmicks. Handled like a dream. I drove it east for about an hour. Dunno why. Just… east. Felt right, y’know? I ended up in a secluded area, popped the trunk, and found a crowbar. To my chagrin, as my ex-wife woulda said. For the next four hours, I beat the shit outta that fine car. Now, here’s where that self-destruction creeped its head in for the first time. The car was leaking gas like a fuckin’ stuck pig, and I decided to lie in the new mud with a lit cigarette. That shit was cold. I could hear the premium grade trickling as I puffed away. Even almost dropped my fuckin’ cherry a few times. Anyway, the gas stopped and I finished smokin’. Walked home because no cabbie would take a guy soaked in flammable dirt. Fancy that.

Since that day, I’ve been kinda teetering on what a professional might say is on the edge of destruction, disillusionment, and chaos. I saved myself a few bucks and figured that I’m a depressed sumbitch. But hey, life goes on, right? Life goes fuckin’ on. Unless my pal Baretta here interjects.

If you wanna read something (a lot) less misogynistic, why not the first four chapters of my novel, “Lie”? It’s a surreal dramedy about four women who go on vacation to help one of their own through a life-changing decision. Some say it’s as if Kevin Smith wrote a novel and handed it off to David Lynch at a certain point. If you like what you read, you can pick it up for less than two dollars wherever eBooks are sold. Thanks for reading.


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