Mike Gamms - Chapter Five: Even Winners Can Be Losers

We arrive to Vegas just around sunset.  Eager to continue the buzz we started in the car, me and Roger hit up the liquor store while the girls go get strippered up in the bathroom mirror. I promise Jacki a bottle of whiskey, a task I have to borrow money from Roger to complete.  

On the way back to the room we stop at the casino so Roger can play some black jack. I'm quickly reminded that I actually hate this city a lot more than I had remembered.  I'm not sure if last time I was here I was too drunk to notice or not unhappy enough to be bothered by it, but on this visit I'm already miserable. The people I hate are being celebrated as cool. Those cocky fucks in their designer suits just trying to show off how rich and pretty they are. I'm so poor I can't imagine what it's like to even want a 300 dollar suit, let alone actually own one. The money I make off unemployment and donating plasma barely leaves me enough for a bottle of cheap whiskey.  Seeing people bet even a 100 on a hand of black jack is enough to make me sick.   

10 minutes and a grand later, Roger is ready to go. When we get back to the room, I'm not sure if Jacki is more excited to see me, or the bottle of booze. I already feel like I'm striking out with her.  Whenever I'm around a pretty girl I get nervous.  And surprisingly all the drinking didn't help. I'm not sure if I fell in love with her already or just in love with the thought of a girl that hot even being remotely interested in me. Either way I look pathetic. I know I'm too much of a pussy to get with her sober so I start racing to get drunk as soon as possible.  I can tell by the way she's keeping up that she needs to be drunk to hook up with me too.  I try to pretend like it's because she's nervous but I'm not dumb. I'm too much of a self loathing little shit to not have seen it coming a mile away. I'm not sure why I'm so fucking miserable when we'll probably still fuck anyways.   

I decide it's best not to think about it, and crack open the Grey Goose bottle. Not that I would ever buy that over priced douchebag vodka, but Roger thinks it's cool to show off. Trying to impress his large breasted lady, he invites up a friend who claims to be a Vegas club promoter.  I'm unimpressed because I hate everyone, but to girls as sleazy as these two, club promoters are kings. Especially when they bring as much coke as this one.   

Him and the girls have already done a mirror full of lines and are feeling pretty hopped up.  This is clear when he pulls Jacki's panties aside and licks her vagina. She laughs and doesn't seem to mind. Neither does anyone else in the room, so I shouldn't either. I begin to wonder why I fall in love with girls who flirt and fuck like it means nothing, but I direct my attention to the coffee table lined with blow instead.  

After a few lines, I've forgotten about Jacki, I've forgotten about the bugs, and I've even forgotten about how much I hate myself. I have no concern for what I'm doing. My only worry is having as much fun as possible and feeling as good as possible. At least that's what I tell my self as I try to let the drug take over.  I've had enough of being in charge of my actions and drugs are a get out of jail free card for making bad decisions. I can be whoever I wanna be, do whatever I wanna do, and I have a perfect scapegoat for all of it.  

Roger is just as snow blown as me but on a different planet entirely. After doing a line off his girl's tits, he declares it's time to go. I grab a bottle of wine for the road. Whenever I do hard drugs I think it makes me Hunter S. Thompson. No one buys it, but it sure as hell gets me drunk quicker.   

I'm too lazy to fight for pussy so I just let Jacki have the club promoter if she wants him. She grabs my crotch in the elevator. Clearly ignoring her turns her on. When we finally get in the club my chances with Jacki continue to improve. The promoter is no longer a threat; he disappeared as soon as he brought us passed the line outside and into the club.  He stuck around long enough for what I can only assume was an expensive handshake with Roger.  

The coke high has shifted from extremely elated to arrogant and judgmental. Everyone in the club annoys me.  All the women have matching fake tits and fake personalities. They may pretend like they want to be models, but deep down they just want to a marry a rich foreign guy, and spend all his money drinking with her girlfriends by the pool. It wouldn't be so annoying if all the guys in this club weren't the exact guys who want nothing more than to land themselves a fake empty wife.  This club is a breeding ground for everyone I hate. These people think that being rich or attractive will compensate for being so damn uninteresting, but I don't buy it.  

Jacki makes the rounds through the club leaving me to entertain myself with a head full of coke and a liver full of vodka. We both know I'm her plan B as long as I'm able to keep quiet and not weird her out too much. I keep my distance and venture towards the dance floor.  

When you surround me with people I hate, I get bored easily and make trouble. I start repeatedly stomping on the feet of people around me while I pretend to be dancing. After they get pissed and realize it was no accident, I move onto to a different part of the floor. After I run out of toes to step on, I go find Jacki. I get a rush off the reckless danger and it gives me enough balls to ask her back to the room.  

A few minutes later we find ourselves in the elevator.  I'm not sure if it's out of nervous fear or incredible loneliness, but I try to hold Jacki's hand.  She playfully slaps it away and grabs my cock instead.  She tells me it's big but I know it's out of pity. It's more insulting that she thinks I'm the kind of guy who needs his ego stroked than it would have been if she had just said I had a small dick. I decide it's best to keep my shit together and ignore my issues long enough to get a load off.   

We burst through the door to find Roger and his girl already at it. He hammers her from behind, each hand full of her fake tits. He continues at it as he shouts across the room to us.  

"Hey man don't let us interrupt your fun. There's plenty of room in the bathroom for a good solid fuck!"  

I'm not confident in my abilities enough to fuck in front of a crowd, and she's horny enough to do it just about anywhere, so we take his advice.  

That much coke and booze is enough to slow down even the quickest semen, but I'm still ready to go after only a few minutes.  The only reason I hold it in is for the girl's benefit anyways. I could care less about getting her off at this point; it's not like she's getting much out of it.  I'm too awkward to make conversation and I'm sweating like a pig. But I can tell by the occasional moan she lets out between text messages that she doesn't mind it too much. She's about as into me as I'm into her, but at least she's not so tripped up on her own bullshit that she can't enjoy a simple fuck. Whether it's an ignorant denial of the situation, or a nihilist I don't give a fuck attitude, I'm jealous of her marginal contentment with life.   

I close my eyes and pretend like my dick isn't only hours behind the club promoters tongue for a few more pumps before letting it out. She kisses me on the forehead, says thanks and skips out of the room.  The fact that this girl has come to expect such unsatisfactory fucking only makes me feel more pathetic.  I pop a few sleeping pills I stole from her purse and curl up in the empty bathtub. I won't feel any less lonely than I would in bed with her, that's for sure. The pills kick in fast and I survive another day.

Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.

Mike Gamms - Fear and Loathing on the 15 North

I wake up to the sound of the phone ringing but don't answer it. I figure if it's important enough, they'll keep calling until I'm ready to pick up. There is a wet ziplock bag on my face and I'm on the couch. Roger must have dumped me here sometime last night. Despite being soaking wet, at least he was thoughtful enough to ice this rapidly developing shiner.   

Honestly though, I don't mind having a black eye. As douchey as it sounds, it makes me feel cooler, tougher even. Besides I couldn't look any uglier. The scars from the bed bugs have only gotten worse, and my 5 o'clock shadow is now a full fledged beard. I light a cigarette and sit down on the shitter before finally answering the phone. It's Roger.   

"Get out of bed. We're going to Vegas, meet me at my office in an hour. Oh, and bring something nice to wear."  

Usually I'd tell him to fuck off, but I could use a Vegas trip. To most people Las Vegas is a fantasy world. It's a chance to escape into the seedy underworld of scumbags and degenerates for a weekend. For guys like us it's the only place we really feel at home.  We are a couple of booze soaked perverts and drug users, and in Nevada, this type of behavior is strongly encouraged.  

Personally I relate to the losers in Vegas. The desperate types who lost everything they have. Leave me alone at the penny slots at Circus Circus, sucking down whiskey and I feel right at home. Not Roger, he relates to the winners. He loves the glitz and glamour of Vegas. Playing one-hundred dollar hands of blackjack at the Wynn. That's more his style. That's what I love about Vegas. No matter what breed of shitbag you are, they have something for you.  

Obviously, I am immediately on board for the trip and start throwing some stuff together. Roger said to dress nice so I pull a ratty old suit coat from the dirty clothes. It's a size too small on me but it's the only thing I own that even half way resembles something nice. I stuff the rest of my shit into a plastic bag and head for the bus. I have to meet Roger at his office, and it takes close to an hour to get there on public transportation.   

When you ride the bus in LA you can really feel the division of classes in this shit hole of a city. In case I forgot my place in society, the Lexus blaring it's horn at the much slower bus serves as a cruel reminder of just how shitty my life is compared to those around me. I think that's why they have windows on the bus. So successful people can take a look at the face of the losers during their morning commute to the office. Like them, the bus is the only place I can encounter people worse off than me. On this particular ride, I over hear a conversation between two young homeless guys.  

"Yeah, it happened last week. It really sucks." 

"Don't worry, I remember the first time I had my gear stolen too."  

Something about this conversation really strikes me.  The way he says it, the FIRST time I had my gear stolen. it's like its some sort of rite of passage that they all have to go through.  As if after the first time, you become completely accepting of having nothing and no one. Maybe it's the way he responds to this with such normalcy that really stands out to me. Or maybe it's because I know I'm not too far away from being one of them. One bad break, one arrest and I could be sleeping on the street next to them. I decide it's best not to think about it, just ignore it. That's how the rest of society deals with all the horrible misfortunes all around them, I might as well too.  

I finally arrive at Roger's office, and he's waiting for me in the parking lot. There's nothing like seeing a man in suit drinking a 40 while leaning against a Mercedes. I'm still 20 yards from him when he starts barking at me.  

"Let's go asshole! We still gotta stop by the meat market and pick up some pussy!"  

All class. At first, the thought of spending a four hour car ride with two women is enough to make me wish I was deaf. But the more I think about it, the better of an idea it becomes. The hardest part of getting laid while out of town is finding the girls, so if we bring them with us, we're half way there already.  

We pull up to a place called "The Klassy Kat". Two girls with cheetah print suitcases are waiting outside the club. They both look like they just got done with a shift and I can't tell if their suitcases are filled with different outfits for their dance routines or clothes for the trip, but I'm sure there isn't much of a difference anyways. One girl has bigger breasts, and is clearly the alpha female in their friendship. Obviously, she gets first dibs on the man with the car. That leaves me in the backseat with girl number two.  

I don't mind this one bit. She is a solid 9, and if I don't screw this up, she'll be one of the better looking broads I've ever been able to score.  And besides, I usually try to avoid the alpha females anyways. They are way too confident and are usually only attracted to their alpha male counterparts, so it's not worth the effort for a man as low on the food chain as me. I'd rather go for second fiddle. They are way more vulnerable and easy to get into their panties when you don't own a Mercedes.  

I notice she brought "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" for the ride and compliment her taste. I'm sure she just bought it because she thought Johnny Depp was hot in the movie, but just the fact that a girl knows how to read is a plus in my book. Roger, eager to get me laid, immediately introduces me.  

"This is Chuck, he's a writer too! People say he's the next Hunter S. Thompson!"  

I think about correcting him by saying my writing is more like Charles Bukowski, but that would make me an even bigger douchebag. Just because I'm a fucking loser doesn't make me Charles Bukowski. It just makes me another prick who is discontent with his slightly below average existence. I just let it go and decided to play nice, that way I wont end up sleeping alone on the floor of our hotel room tonight.  

"Nice to meet you Chuck.  I'm Jackie Daniels."  

I think about asking her what her real name is. Maybe it will be as cool as when he asks for her real name in "Almost Famous," but I decide it'd be better to offer her a swig of the jug of wine I brought for the trip instead.  

After about 2 hours on the road, and half the jug, I've got Jackie mostly figured out. She's a much more complex creature than I initially thought. I can tell at this point in her fucked up life she's had so many men treat her like a sex object, like her looks are all she's got going for her that she actually believes it herself. She cusses, talks dirty, and acts like an all around maneater, but I can tell it's just a front. She exudes this fake confidence in herself to hide the real Jackie inside of her. She's really just a broken, damaged girl who's been treated like shit by everyone. She needs to learn to love herself before she can let anyone really love her. I know this, because I'm pretty much the same way. That's what attracts me to her. That I can see myself in her. And not just in her vagina. This just may turn out to be the best Vegas trip yet.

Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.

Mike Gamms - Another Night in Hollywood

Why am I even going to this party? I'm not going to like anyone here and they aren't going to like me. Especially if I keep drinking like I am now. We haven't even gotten to the door and I already want to leave. I see the person I can only assume is the host approaching us.

"Hey guys thanks for coming!"

He is as big of a twit as I imagined. The kind of tool who tells his friends back home he works in the film industry when in actuality he rips tickets in a movie theatre. Him and Roger have some pointless conversation about God knows what. I over hear him say he moved to Los Angeles for the weather. God, people are fucking lame. I'm not sure if I'm more pissed about what he said, or the fact that I've undoubtedly said the same lame crap before. I try to convince myself that it's different because I'm aware that I sound like a jackass, but I'm not sure if I really believe it.

I continue trying to forget what he says before he's even done saying it. If it's important enough I'm sure I'll hear it again. I don't even remember his name and hopefully in a few minutes I won't remember his face. I'll let Roger make small talk with idiots and hopefully I'll be left out of the conversation.

"Who's your friend?"

"This is Chuck, he's a writer-"

That's fucking great. There's already enough self proclaimed "artists" at this party, and now I'm one of them. I'm not sure what annoys me more, that people are going to think I'm one of them, or I'm actually going to feel like one of them. The host looks to me for some sort of conversation, but I don't even bother.

I am quickly on the move. Roger can handle this guy on his own. When I finally find the beer, they have nothing but a few dozen Mic Ultra Lights. Don't get me wrong, I'm no beer snob, but I'd prefer to have something with a little more kick than that. But I think the point of having such a sissy beer in such low quantity is so that people like me don't get drunk and make a scene. But considering the fifth I drank for lunch, that's all but unavoidable at this point. I complain about the booze selection to a woman at the bar but she doesn't see the problem.

"I like this beer. It's low calorie so I don't feel as guilty about skipping the gym tomorrow."

I debate telling her that her fat ass probably makes her feel more guilty than any beer could, but I'm feeling pretty lonely and the company of a woman doesn't sound like a bad idea at this point. And besides, pretending to be interested in her isn't going to make me hate myself anymore than I already do right now. I tell her I love Mic Ultra because I have to do twice the work to get half as drunk. She isn't smart enough to get it, but she's smart enough to know it's a joke and laugh. Some girls are so desperate for male approval its sickening.

Just as I'm starting to think today isn't going to be all that bad, the guy from the front door is headed my way again. Roger is no where to be seen, so I'm actually going to have to talk to him on my own. I can't remember his name or much of what he said, but that fedora hat and beard tell me he's a struggling artist. I'll just get him talking about himself while I concentrate on downing these beers. I ask him if he's working on any projects right now. This will keep him occupied for a while. Plus he really doesn't care what I have to say anyways, he just enjoys hearing himself say it.

"I've got a terrific script I'm directing. In fact, I wrote it myself!"

I tell him it sounds great. But really I just wonder if his girl blows him as much as he blows himself. I don't get how people like him can think so highly of themselves when there is clearly so much to dislike. Or maybe I'm just bitter that fools like him can find bliss in their own ignorance while I constantly drown myself in my own self misery. I can't take listening to this guy anymore, so I excuse myself to the bathroom, grabbing two new beers along the way.

This is where I find Roger. The only other person here foul enough to not only take a shit at the party, but to bring his beer with him. After we finish our respective business, Roger pulls out a bag of coke. Knowing Roger, this isn't surprising. Roger may pretend to be my manager, but it's mostly just a gimmick to trick girls new to Hollywood into sleeping with him. Not that he isn't still successful in his own right. Roger makes most of his money owning shady motels off the Sunset Strip. Renting out motel rooms by the hour, you get pretty familiar with the world of cocaine and loose women. I'm not saying I'm any better than Roger, I just can't afford as much as blow as he can. I have to skip meals to buy 3 dollar bottles of whiskey. But if Roger is buying, I'll gladly partake.

Coke makes me feel unstoppable. All the self hate seems to disappear. I stop destroying myself on the inside and start destroying everyone around me. Today's cut is pretty strong.

We wipe our noses, licking the last of the residue off our fingers as we head back to the bar for more beer. I stumble into some guy, spilling his drink. Unfortunately, he's the kind of guy who takes himself way too seriously.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole!"

His tight shirt and smug expression are a dead giveaway of an aspiring actor. The coke has me feeling powerful and fearless. I tell him I'm a talent agent at CAA and I want to sign him.

"Really?!?"

The look on his face says it all. It's almost sickening how quickly he changes his opinion when he thinks it might help his acting career. But he just as quickly realizes how foolish he looks. Making such an insecure little man look stupid only proves to make things worse. He takes a swing at me, but somehow in my intoxicated state, I am able to dodge his attack. I can't help but laugh.

Distracted by my own good fortune, I forget that the actor doesn't find this as funny as I do. The second punch doesn't miss. The haymaker to my jaw has me hard on the floor. I try to shake it off and get on my feet, but he clocks me square in the jaw and darkness fills my eyes.

Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.

Mike Gamms - The Next Morning

The good thing about passing out in the bathroom is you don't have to go very far for your morning piss. Mid stream I realize my urine contains the last drops of alcohol left in the house. This is shaping up to be yet another shitty day.

I think about eating something, but decide otherwise. There is no way I can hold any food down before I get some booze in my system, and besides, eating only makes it take longer to get drunk and I don't know how much longer I can take this sobriety. Sobriety makes you see clearly, and the problem with seeing clearly is some times you don't always like what you see. I wonder if everyone think I'm a tool when I say shit like that, or is it just me.

But, atleast being a drunk gives me an excuse for being such a fucking loser. Unemployed Recovering Alcoholic doesn't have such a great ring to it either. It gives people hope to think that if only I could quit drinking I might turn my life around. Little do they know, I can't turn my life around, and that's why I drink.

It could be worse I guess. I could still be a drunk back in the shithole I call home. Atleast now I'm a drunk living in Los Angeles. Maybe I won't die poor, drunk and alone 5 miles from where I was born, but I sure as shit might do it 3000 miles from where I was born. I'm not sure if that's any better, but at this point it's enough to give me even the smallest glimmer of hope.

I feel a little better than I did last night, but still miles away from how good I felt a few years ago. I think it's because the bed bugs tend to ease up during the day light. It doesn't make any sense, but it's almost as if they can sense when I'm weakest, when I'm really beating myself up, they go for the kill. Maybe today won't be as bad of a day as I thought if I can get drunk enough to not feel anything by the time the bugs inside me come out.

I start rummaging my apartment for any booze I can get my grubby little hands on, when I hear a knock at the door. Fuck me. I can't even drown in my own self misery in peace anymore. I tell them to leave me alone, that I've seen the word of God and I'm not interested.

"I'm not a god damn Mormon, man. It's Roger! Let me the fuck in!"

Misery loves company, and Roger's the only company I get these days so I better let him in. He might have something to ease the pain and I'm outta booze. I could go for just about anything right now.

Roger bursts through the door. As always, he's dressed in only the finest clothes Beverly Hills has to offer. To everyone else he may look like a million bucks, but I know that in his soul he's worth nothing more than a crumpled dollar bill pulled from a stripper's panties. Roger's a lot like me in that sense. Drinks too much. Fucks too much. The only difference is Roger enjoys every minute of it. He's a bastard, but happier than a pig in shit while doing it. He also genuinely likes people, where as I dispise them. I have no idea why he's here, so I ask him what the hell he wants.

"I have to stop by here from time to time to make sure my favorite client hasn't choked on his own vomit. You are far too young to go out that way, and besides you haven't written for shit."

As fucked up as that maybe, it actually makes me feel a little better, just knowing that someone cares even a little bit. That may be the lamest thing I've ever written. I'm such a pussy sometimes it's sickening. I tell him not to worry, but he notices the empty orange juice jug in the bathroom.

"Did you drink yourself till you passed out by the toilet again? You really are trying to kill yourself aren't you?"

Shit. What a thought. I wouldn't say I'm trying to kill myself, but I'm sure as shit not doing anything to keep myself from dying. Not sure if there's much of a difference. Why do I find chaotic self-destruction so desirable? Are Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain really figures to look up to, or were they just fucked up, self-loathing losers who couldn't get their shit straight either? They got everything I ever wanted and they sure weren't any happier than I am now. I'm starting to believe there really is no light at the end of my tunnel. I debate telling Roger that all my dreams are really the same nightmare I'm trapped in now, but he already thinks I'm crazy so I just nod and brush it off, he doesn't really wanna know the answer anyways.

"And don't think I'm going to let you sit around this house feeling sorry for yourself all damn day. It's Saturday. We're going out."

I try to tell Roger I'm going to write today, but he's heard this one before. He stops me before I even start.

"Don't give me that "I'm writing" bullshit. We both know you haven't written a fucking word in months and you're sure as shit not gonna start on a Saturday."

He's right and we both know it. I mean, I've written some words and sentences here and there, but nothing even close to resembling an actual work. For me, there's always been a thin line between writing and drinking, but these days it seems more of the latter and less of the former. I still carry my raggedy old notebook with me everywhere in hopes of scribbling even so much as a thought down. But all that proves to accomplish is making me hate myself more for looking like one of those prententious aspiring artists I hate so much. I wish I could stop judging myself all the time and just enjoy myself for a change.

"My friend's having a party. There will be girls there. And booze."

I tell him I don't like to socialize with people before I'm drunk. It's too much work. Pretending to be interested in people you find boring. But he knows me too well. He pulls out a fifth of Southern Comfort from his suit coat pocket. I reach for it but he pulls away. Bastard.

"I know I can't get you out of the house without an incentive. You are like a dog really. You can have it when we get in the car."

Minutes later I found myself drinking straight from the bottle in the passenger seat of Roger's Mercedes. Saying that, I sound like I think this makes me something of a badass, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I guess his car is considered nice by most, but I am extremely uncomfortable in it. I've been wearing the same jeans for weeks, jeans I bought used for a few dollars at Goodwill, and I stink like booze and cigarettes. In this car, I am out of my element. I belong on the bus with the other undesirables and low lifes. But this is where I'm at, might as well take a swig. I ask him where we are going.

"A party in the Hollywood Hills. I know this producer-"

I cut him off before he can even finish. I don't wanna go to some ass kissing "Hollywood Industry" party and he knows it. Everyone sucks everyone elses dick in the hopes that they'll be the one to help them "make it big." I'd rather stay at home with my bed bugs than rub crotches with the likes of that crowd.

But that was Roger's plan the whole time. He knows if he surrounds me with people I hate more than myself it might make me feel better. And as childish and immature as it sounds, he's right. I may hate myself, but at least I'm not one of them. They should hate themselves but aren't insightful enough to realize how pathetic they are. That's the problem with being insightful, not only do I notice everyone elses flaws and hate them for it, but I do the same to myself.

Maybe I don't hate these people as much as I am just jealous of their ignorance. What I would give to just be a normal happy fucking idiot like them for a change. Treating people like they are lower than me may make me hate myself even more tommorow, but at least for tonight I'll feel good about myself. Even the thought of this temporary joy has me thinking tonight might shape up to be better than I thought.

Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.

Mike Gamms - No Win For Me Today

I know what it feels like to love myself, and I know what it feels like to hate myself. I just wish I knew what it felt like to just like myself. That normal feeling of contentment that the rest of the world seems to have. For me it's either one extreme or the other. And no matter which side of the sword I wake up on, I always try and balance my brain the same way: by drowning it with booze. Today is no different.

I dig through the rummage in the living room in search of a clean cup to make my concoction. The table is covered in cigarette butts, microwaveable pizzas and empty beer cans. It may look like a scene of out some cheesy Animal House rip off where everyone gets laid and everyone is happy, but I assure you it's not. I may get laid every now and then, but that sure as shit doesn't lead to happiness. Instead of just thinking I'm a worthless sack of shit, I now think some girl is a worthless sack of shit for letting someone as foul as me weasel my way into her panties. With every girl I penetrate, I lose more and more faith in the female population. If I'm smart enough to know they should have nothing to do with me, why aren't they? Oh boy is the self loathing strong in me today.

I eventually give up looking for a glass and just pour the straight vodka into a half gallon of OJ. Yesterday's juice and today's vodka will only lead to tomorrow’s hangover, but at least it'll get me through the night. It taste like shit and burns going down, but considering the gas has been shut off for weeks, this provides a much needed warmth. The warmth it provides is temporary and artificial, much like the joy of the rapidly approaching booze buzz. Every self loathing word my fingers type only makes me hate myself more for being such a douche bag. Does everyone hate me this much, or just me?

The TV doesn't work and I've already read all the books I have, so I must seek other entertainment to accompany my intoxication. I try to just lie down and fall asleep but the bed bugs are gnawing at my skin. I think that the bed bugs may not be the only thing eating at me from the inside. I hate myself even more for thinking a thought so pretentious. There clearly is no win for me tonight. My mind has waged civil war.

Maybe I'll call a girl. She may not come over, but even just the conversation makes me feel less like I'm all alone and drinking myself to death. But considering the whores I associate with, she might be down for a fuck. Some days it's a hell of a lot easier to get someone to sleep with me than it is to get to sleep with myself. But then again, if she sees me in this state, feeling sorry for myself, she might not want anything to do with me ever again. My girls like me on the ups, feeling way too good about myself and treating them like shit. This clearly isn't one of those days.

I decide on a shower instead. I take a cold one so I can wallow in my own misery a little more. This proves to be even worse than I thought, as the harsh beady water only serves to irritate the sores and bumps from the bed bugs that have made my epidermis their home. I turn the water off and decide to give myself a good look in the mirror. As I stare, I find myself more and more repulsed. I haven’t shaved in weeks in a failed attempt to cover up the hideous red blotches all over my face. I can almost feel the bugs crawling around, pissed off at me for trying to drown them in the shower. I've always wanted to be Charles Bukowski, but I was hoping I'd get his talent, not his ugliness and skin condition. I guess I should have been more specific with my aspirations.

The dried skin and bags under my eyes are getting worse. Those were there long before the bugs moved in. How did I manage to go from being an awkward looking boy to an ugly old man in less than a year? I thought I would eventually grow into myself and be a good looking man. Instead my boyish features became crusty and infected. I stare harder into the mirror to try to look past my ugliness.

I look inside myself and only find more ugliness. A bitter man filled with a hatred for everyone and everything. I wouldn't say I'm a misanthrope. Misanthropes hate everyone else in the world, I just hate the me that I see in them. The pretentiousness, the contradictions, the emotional vulnerability I try to reject always seems to find its way out.

The OJ jug is nearly empty and I'm starting to feel its effects. Especially considering the three Vicodins I choked down with it. Afraid of the bugs that have over run my room, I curl up in a ball on the damp bathroom rug. The bugs inside me will eventually breed on the rug too, but at least for tonight I've found a safe haven. The last wave of my juice hits me pretty hard and my eyelids close. I have found peace. Substance induced peace, but peace none the less.

Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.