One hundred drunken words. One hundred women that were never mine. At work, I daydream oblivious to those around me. I imagine a life where you don’t have to bleed to companies and organizations to simply exist. It’s fantasy, but it shouldn’t have to be. The days are cold, but soon it will be Spring, and the warmer weather will see an improvement in my moods. Winter drains the life out of me, and every year it gets worse. Maybe one day I’ll make some money and move to a sunnier climate. Maybe America, but I don’t like flying, and the spiders out there are too big. Or maybe I’ll become a fabulous drunk and time will simply cease to exist. In what season is it best to die? What day of the week is it best to leave this mortal coil behind? I want to go in my sleep on a Thursday- the day I was born. Probably March, but never July. Let me fall into the arms of a beautiful woman- let me go out in the middle of one of those dreams that make you never want to wake. I’m unaware of everything that doesn’t fit into my way of seeing things. I want Natalie Portman to give me a handjob while showering me with kisses; I want her to speak to me in French about the sea. Maybe the sounds of birdsong also. Nightshifts. Dayshifts. Writing. Beer. Wine. Her body at arms length; a smile that exists for a hundredth of a second. Blink and you’ll miss it, but it’s there if you catch it in time. She’s so lovely, but I, however, am not.