The Future Rose Up Ahead Of Her,

Maybe I've Just Read Too Many Novels. In Novels, Alcoholics Are Always Attractive And Fuuny And Charming And Complex, Like Sebastian Flyte Or Abe North In Tender In The Night, And They're Drinking Because Of A Deep, Unquenchable Sadness Of The Soul, Or The Terrible Legacy Of The First World War, Whereas I Just Get Drunk Because I'm Thirsty, And I Like The Taste Of Lager.

The True Writer, The Born Writer, Will Scribble Words On Scraps Of Litter, The Back Of A Bus Tickets, On The Wall Of A Cell.

I've Been A Compulsive Reader For As Long As I Can Remember.

You Feel A Little Bit Lost Right Now About What To Do With Your Life, A Bit Rudderless And Oarless And Aimless But That's Okay That's Alright Because We're All Meant To Be Like That At Twenty-four.

As The Possibility Of A Relationship Had Faded, Emma Had Endeavored To Harden Herself To Dexter's Indifference And These Days A Remark Like This Caused No More Pain Than, Say, A Tennis Ball Thrown Sharply At The Back Of Her Head.