"Three a.m drunks, all over America, were staring at the walls, having finally given it up. You didn’t have to be a drunk to get hurt, to be zeroed out by a woman; but you could get hurt and become a drunk. You might think for a while, especially when you were young, that luck was with you, and sometimes it was. But there were all manner of averages and laws working that you knew nothing about, even as you imagined things were going well. Some night, some hot summer Thursday night, you became the drunk, you were out there alone in a cheap rented room, and no matter how many times you’d been out there before, it was no help, it was even worse because you had got to thinking you wouldn’t have to face it again. All you could do was light another cigarette, pour another drink, check the peeling walls for lips and eyes. What men and women did to each other was beyond comprehension."
Charles Bukowski (via thechocolatebrigade)
Disclaimer: Usually the Bukowski myth (another tortured alcoholic male writer, oh spare me) fills me with a rage that burns my eyes, but reputation aside I’ve occasionally read some True Shit from him that gets me all teary-eyed.
