Oh Charles Bukowski. Our surrogate father, up in heaven, if only you had believed in heaven. And if only you weren’t a cretinous old man full of hate and wonder.
Remember that time your friends and you went out to that awesome warehouse rave/party? You wanted to dance but you only dance when you are REALLLY drunk, so you did a lot of binge drinking. Then you drank some more. And some more. Somehow you found your way home, but the next morning you were awaken by the most terrible hangover you’ve ever known. Dry mouth, a pulsating feeling in your brain. You spent the rest of the day in bed, drinking water, popping Tylenol just to stay alive.
My point is that you’re still a bitch. Bukowski would laugh at your hangovers, and then continue to drink his liver to death.
He will always be better than you.