54.

I can't believe some of the cars parked along greek row. I just realized what an insult that is to my buddy Poseidon. This shit ain't greek, just cause you put latin shit on the front of your shit palace doesn't make it greek. Poseidon weeps at the mishandled legacy of his people. But whatever, fucking spoiled kids with spoiled cars. If I had it in me, I'd piss on all these shinny expensive toys. Worthless boxes almost as expensive and pointless as their college education. Take that yuppies, feel the scalding bitter wit of a college dropout. Look at me, I don't need a degree, I'm doing just fine. The crickets come back. My head starts to ache and my stomach gets all rumbly again so I take it out on a new blue Prius. My eyes constantly switch in out of focus, like that test they make you do at the eye doctor. Number 1, or number 2? Number 1, or number 2? I chose number 1 and I mosey on over to some shinny looking beemer and piss all over the passenger side door handle. My piss is dark and black, like oil. Thick and sluggish, life choking. Or it might just be the drugs creeping in. It makes me contemplate a second Seconal but then I remember the one I buried at sea and I know I shouldn't waste the good stuff. That's for special occasions. I settle for a pair of Vicodin I had stashed away with Altoids in one of those little red tins. Those tins are absolutely great for not smashing the stuff, way better than a plastic baggie. Far more discreet as well. I love these little things, these little tin coffins for burying my squandered potential. Why the fuck do these houses have these ridiculous columns? Poor poor Poseidon. Is this travesty of greco-roman architecture suppose to impress? Inspire ideas of long lasting antiquity? Fuck off, it didn't work. You can't polish a turd. That fancy looking house with the lovely chocolate coating has nothing but shit flavoring inside. Just spilled Miller, herpes, vomit, and morons inside. I wish I had to piss again.