a real writer

“what a place! this apartment is huge!” Cath said.

“yeah,” I said.

“you must pay a fortune. i wonder where a writer, like yourself gets
that sort of money to pay for this place!”

I lit a cigar and sat on my $400 couch
taking a puff from
a $10 cigar
exhaling $15 worth of
air.

“a second job,” I assure her.

“oh? what do you do, may I ask, mr. williams?”

“cashier at some store.”

she sat on my $130 chair that
I found on a 20% sale in office debot
while still getting a 10% discount with
coupons.

“you sure manage well for someone that ‘suffers’,” she said.

“I sure do,” I told her.

she got up and went into my fridge
opening it.

“WOW. LOOK AT ALL THIS BOOZE! YOU HAVE ENOUGH
IN HERE FOR 5 WEEKS AT MY PLACE! GREG AND VINCE WILL LOVE
THIS SORT OF SHIT.”

“you should invite them next time. i’ll bring more
women for them and
us,” I told her.

and so, we sat there
enjoying $200 worth of an electricity bill
and drinking $50 worth of
wine and beer and
shit.

these women always think that a writer is a
genuine creature but
they forget that
we lie more
than the gods
die.

that’s what
makes
us
real,
ironically.