Bored Bougie

Sorry for the extended absence, I've been in a bit of a mood lately. Normally, I take great joy in exposing the deficiencies of the Refugee and revelling in my overwhelming superiority to him in all respects. But, maybe that's just gotten too easy and explicit. The charm is waning. When there is no challenge, no competition, except for a sorry lush who mumbles and spits, something is lacking. I guess an overwhelming existential void is coming over me like clouds over this goddamn city. Or like urine over the Refugee's carpet. Saturated in it, really. the Refugee contents himself with liquor and food, and when the public drinking scene doesn't suffice, he contents himself with building a bar in his own excuse-for-an-apartment, because, after awhile, he can drink himself into the delusion that girls are in his proximity, which, of course, they aren't. Sigh. I'm not so easily amused or deranged. So, step up your game the Refugee. Calling me a liar gets you nowhere. I lie. It's what I do. I believe in lying, for the betterment of myself and those around me. If you don't believe me, well, good, I'm probably lying.

Tomorrow is the showdown. A mean and not-so-lean eating competition with my nemesis and pity-case, the Refugee. Located in the center of the universe, my apartment courtyard. Be there or, I guess, be somewhere else doing something better.