Pulp

by Charles Bukowski

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

It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.

We all died broke and most of us lived that way. It was a debilitating game. Just to get your shoes on in the morning was a victory.

I decided to stay in bed until noon. Maybe by then half the world would be dead and it would only be half as hard to take. Maybe if I got up at noon I’d look better, feel better.

People waited all their lives. They waited to live, they waited to die. They waited in line to buy toilet paper. They waited in line for money. And if they didn’t have any money they waited in longer lines. You waited to go to sleep and then you waited to awaken. You waited to get married and you waited to get divorced. You waited for it to rain, you waited for it to stop. You waited to eat and then you waited to eat again. You waited in a shrink’s office with a bunch of psychos and you wondered if you were one.

Existence was not only absurd, it was plain hard work. Think of how many times you put on your underwear in a lifetime. It was appalling, it was disgusting, it was stupid.

I was back with my old friend, scotch and water. Scotch is a drink you don’t take to right off. But after you work with it a while it kind of works its magic on you. I find a special touch of warmth to it that whiskey doesn’t have.

I’m sitting here alone sucking on a scotch and listening to the rain.”