Dear Drunk Assholes,

    Good Day! It’s been nearly a year since you were hanging around outside my house, making life miserable for me. I can’t tell you how much I've missed you, and wondered for the past 355 days what you were up to, and how your family is doing.

    I appreciate you keeping me up to date. However, I do not appreciate the manner in which you keep me up to date. It’s funny, because I could swear we had this conversation last year, and ever year since I moved into this condo. While I want to know all the great news about Troy’s girlfriend blowing another dude in the bathroom of an all-night breakfast spot, or how shit-faced you were last night ( a story that contains few fresh twists, but is told with startling gusto), I find it strange that you’re compelled to tell me at 2 A.M.

    2 A.M. outside my bedroom window no less. Now, Drunk Assholes, we’ve been colleagues, and dare I say it “mortal enemies”, for a long time now... I feel we can be frank with each other.  You’re kind of pathetic.

    Please, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that your choice in life to be Drunk and an Asshole constantly throughout the Stampede is pathetic; I applaud your continued efforts. What I mean is that your drunken antics are mediocre. You’re standing outside, yelling at your friends, talking on a cell phone, and recounting lurid and sad stories to other drunken assholes. Your average work output will decline by nearly half, and within the next month you’ll need to have a large cluster of venereal warts savagely roasted off your cock with liquid nitrogen.

Is that really the best you can do?

    You know, Drunken Assholes, about a week before the Fireworks went off down at the grounds, signaling your perennial orgy of stale draft-beer in plastic cups, and festering, syphilis engorged tongue bathing of skirtless trollops, the genuine street people were keeping it real on my block.
    The Monday night before Stampede the friend of someone living in my building got blind drunk, punched his way through the glass of my building’s front door, covered the foyer’s walls, floors, and doors in blood, and then broke the elevator before escaping unseen.

    This person is Pro.

    That’s what i’m saying to you, Drunken Assholes. In the halcyon days of my youth, I probably would have been angry at you for making noise outside my place, but those days are long gone. I don’t care about the noise, so long as it signals the commencement of true, wholesale slaughter. You have to understand, I’ve lived downtown too long. I don’t shy away from the unbridled lunacy that runs wild here. Not anymore.

    I crave it.

    There are no words to describe the joy i feel when I have to go outside to move my car, even if it’s only down the block. I know at any moment that I could get savagely knifed; I live on it. It’s like i’m doing cocaine 24 hours a day. I have a nine inch para-trooper knife hidden in the folds of my jeans, just waiting for that moment to shine. I want to see a gun-wielding, blind drunk, crack-head with blood pouring out of his eyes, hand me my morning paper. I want my Mailman to be a ravenously hungry, cannibalistic proto-human, with no skin and a massive frontal lobe that can process the smell of my sweat from nine blocks away. I want to start my car every morning by sliding across the hood, and barely managing to get the lock closed, so that the army of sun-defying vampires can’t get a hold of me, and turn me into one of their undead legion.

    I’m angry at you because you disturb the dream, Drunken Assholes. You have the hoof prints of the Unspeakable Dream that awaits me every time I slap my deadbolt open, but you never deliver. Go home, drink some drain cleaner, maybe watch some snuff footage on the internet, take notes. Do better.
 

I’m waiting,

Crom