Once upon a time, a woman named Prudence received a visit from two raving lunatics. She knew their purpose. They did not. She knew their names. They did not. She knew they wanted coffee. It is possible they were in fact aware of that important notion. Coffee is the blood of any great poet, and poets they may have been, ranting and raving, circling poor Prudence as literary vultures and bellowing great words of rhyming prose. �What do you guys want?� she asked.

�We�re your friends,' said my brother. ' We�re not like the others.�

�O Christ, I thought, he�s gone around the bend.�
�No more of that talk,' I said sharply. 'Or I�ll put the leeches on you.' He grinned, seeming to understand. " The only thought I could locate in the murky sludge sloshing around inside my skull was this. If Hunter S. Thompson reads my f****** book I�ll be happy to give him my money. I hate court battles, but I�m sure it would be more like a damn circus with that lunatic present.

Still lost in a trance of thought, I wander off to refill my coffee. �And a voice was screaming: �Holy Jesus! What are these Goddamn animals?� What is this Godawful music these people listen to? I am reminded of a funeral and then I am suddenly sitting in a smoke-filled swing club. It�s 1931 and all I can smell through the smoke is formica and Fica trees. More coffee, damn it! More coffee! Why won�t Johnny Depp stop f****** staring at me!?!

I find myself once again, standing in a Fast Max convenience store wanting to find my baring or bearing and finding instead that time is my greatest enemy. I can�t wait �till we get to California. I can�t wait to climb the palm trees and orange trees and those bearing good drugs and nude women. �Jesus! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me?� I glanced over at my brother, but he seemed oblivious � staring at a women called Prudence, struck in the back of the head with a strange disease named �LOVE� and refusing to look for a cure. Perhaps I have already found his cure and it�s called �You want to go to California to be famous?�

I find myself again and again in a small room with a man called �Sears typewriter� and I may possibly have just recalled a memory of a man named Phil Dobbins. I am slamming my fingers on this man�s keys and remembering a poem read to me once by this Mr. Dobbins, by this so-called genius. I find him to be an idiot and reckless lunatic, but perhaps that could be construed as a compliment. He read me globs of letters out of an old, well-worn and much-used notebook and none of it made a damn bit of sense. Then it hit me. That�s why it made sense. �Man is born and man smokes weed. Man f****** dies and man becomes weed. BECOMES weed! He is a f****** genius! Maybe.

Zyprexa. zyprexa. zyprExa. ZypreXa. zyprexA. Zyprexa. zYprexa. zyPReXa. ZyPrExA. zYpReXa. zypreXA. zypRexA. ZYprEXA. ZypReXa. Zyprexa. zYPREXA. ZypReXA. Zyp Rexa. Zyprexa. zypREXA. zYpreXa. ZypREXA. ZypRExa. ZyPRexa. zYPRExa. One 5 miligram Zyprexa Olanzapine tablet contains within its tiny shell the power of animation. I am twisted once again on this awful drug and I can make a typewriter come alive if I want to. All I have to do is look at it and it becomes Mr. Sears Typing Machine. Yes, it sounds amazing I�m sure, but you have no f****** idea.

�I don�t even know how to use a typewriter . What kind of writer am I? I�m obviously not a typewriter.� As I say that, Rumi just stares back at me from behind some book he seems to be reading. Seems to be reading but I think it�s a front. I think he�s a spy sent by the federal government to observe and study the behavioral habits of a writer or man who writes and the obscene necessity that these f****** drugs have become. I only have seven tablets left and I don�t think I can write a Goddamn book that fast. I�ll be Wanting another worthless chapter when I dig through medicine cabinets to find some evil drug to spin me round in circles inside a telephone booth, transforming me into the writer I wish I was.

I believe I recall saying something like, �Goodbye Rumi. I�m going to the bar now,� and then immediately after, waking on the floor of this room with blood all over my hand and also covered with some sort of slime. After washing my hand and scrubbing the slime off my coat I decided it was my own mucus. My God! Why was there mucus on my coat? Why did I awake covered in the s***? I understand the mud. A person would expect to have mud on his coat after falling in it, running from a bar because his brother exercised mad revenge of an insane variety on the tires of all the vehicles parked outside the bar. Fudge round. I must have eaten most of the chocolate snack cake. I found the remnants all over the floor and I ask my sub-conscious mind if I enjoyed it. Apparently we had one hell of an interesting night. Rumi is sure paying for it with his everlasting hangover and bandaged hand, which explains the blood all over the hand of this woken idiot.

Why do we, as humans, do these stupid f****** things? Do I really want an explanation or do I simply waste my life away with all this rhetoric, knowing damn well the answer. Self-destructive personality disorder means that any sense of order triggers destruction of that order out of the need for chaos - that is the definition of the disorder. Give me a disease or a car wreck and then I�ll paint you a f******* picture of a bunny rabbit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!