He's A Really Nice Guy, If Only

With My Own Memoirs, They Are Truthful, And I Write Everything Fully Expecting To Some Day End Up Televised On Court Tv, And I'm Fully Prepared To Be Challenged Legally On It. Everything I Write Is The Truth And I Know That I Would Win.

My Thoughts Seem Thick, Ketchup Stuck In A Bottle. Like Trying To Feel Someone's Face While Wearing Goosedown Mittens.

My Mother Is From Cairo, Georgia. This Makes Everything She Says Sound Like It Went Through A Curling Iron.

Although I Was Able To Maintain A Pleasant Expression, I Was Mentally Throwing Up In Her Face.

I Sit There And Think How It Isn't Fair That I Can't Drink At All, Even A Little. I Realize I Have Crammed An Entire Lifetime Of Moderate Drinking Into A Decade Of Hard-core Drinking And That Is Why. I Blew My Wad.