I heard a thump in the night.
Was it the drunk man next door?
Was it something outside?
Did that precarious pile of papers fall finally?

I ignored the thump and decided to type instead.
The gold cuts your throat so the alcohol hits you harder. The punch tasted like punch, but with somethign special within it.
Without it, this night would have been like any other.
Good head, so they say, about one.
The secret is out on that one.
Mr. Goodbar?
Are you tired of being burdened by things of the material world?
There is no problem that Jack Daniels can't solve, so it would seem, tonight.
I don't drink whiskey, anymore, really, so I'm going to be troubled for a long time.

Broomball is over.
A girl named Megan played tonight.
She went into the net, hitting her leg on the post of the goal.
That hurts.
She got up like nothing happened at all, and got back into the game.
I asked her if it hurt, she said it hit her thigh.
I admired her drive.
Game's over though, possibly forever.

Thanks a lot for coming you guys, this has been totally the best one.
I'm your only friend, I'm not your only friend, but I'm a little glowing friend.
Chris is a smooth whiskey.
That's one of the best compliments I've ever received.
From a man who likes whiskey.
Who is next store.
Whe may have thumped on the wall.
But I kept typing.

-ccm