Pulp

by Charles Bukowski

Hell was what you made it.

My eyes were blue and my shoes were old and nobody loved me. But I had things to do.

Skip the rest of the day and night here, no action, it’s not worth talking about.

Now just kick four-and-one-half minutes in the ass and forget it. That’s how long it took the bartender to get it to me.

“We all, more or less, resemble somebody else.

“The world is no kindergarten, Jack.

Everything was too small for her: her outfit, the world, her mind.

Most of the world was mad. And the part that wasn’t mad was angry. And the part that wasn’t mad or angry was just stupid.

I lit a cigar, inhaled, and pretended that I knew what the hell.