It’s late. I’m still at the office. Everyone else has left. And all I can think about is scotch. And the sweet sweet tinkling noise the ice makes as I swirl it around in my glass. And its sweet sweet feel as it courses down to my belly, the alcohol carving out tiny caverns inside my throat. Three glasses and I can finally wake up from this headline nightmare, having forgotten about advertising completely. Six and I’ll be scrawling scripted nonsense onto bar naps with the pen the bartender lent me. Eight and I’ll be telling everyone to fuck off and I hate them all. I hate this city. I hate my life. And you can all just fucking die. And then, thanks to the sweet sweet mind erasing benefits of sweet sweet scotch, I won’t remember a damn thing.
Hm. Headlines or not, I think it might be time for me to go home.