1: Declaration. A hole in my hand. I woke up feeling intense. What’s new?  There was a painful stinging sensation in my left hand and through a beautiful hazy hangover I could feel something really problematic kick starting my day. I raised my hand to observe the problem, which felt like it was drilling its way into the middle of my palm. My left hand was wrapped up in a blood and alcohol soaked cake of a pillow cover. Whatever had happened last night it seemed as though I had not bothered to venture into the bathroom for medical supplies but had decided to deal with the incident in bed. I surmised from the evidence scattered on the floor that the smell emanating from inside the makeshift bandage was of vodka, gin and whiskey. Had I really gone to bed with three different bottles? As an over excessive child of the Eighties I have a tendency to not only over do but also dramatically under do whatever it is that I feel like doing.  My morning was following on from the previous day. I could not erase with any amount of alcohol what had gone before. My new life had to begin with the aftermath of the old one. I did sleep with a girl that I met in a downtown bar. I did quit my job as a trainee a writer and some days I would feel like a writer and others I would only feel nothing. Walking away from that last job and in response to how I felt about it, I wanted to be able to tell people I do nothing. I’m only a loser. And I wanted to say it in such a way that the truth, whatever it may be, didn’t matter. I’m a loser. So why don’t you kill me? Huh? I wanted to hang in slackerville in the only real depravity I was ever likely to know, where things could feel desperate. This is the type of desperation you can’t throw yourself into