Eliot Ness was a fucking mess and...

A leader of the prohibition movement in Chicago, an alcoholic, a Cleveland legend, and a rather tasty beer. I could tell you about 8 billion more inconsequential facts about 8 billion inconsequential things. Instead of doing work I should do I look up Norwegian black metal bands (Gorgoroth, Dimmu Borgir, Immortal, Mayhem, etc.). I know I am not the only one who takes them seriously. I am also trying to find an article on my youngest half-brother's Grandfather, who stabbed his wife to death (who would have been my brother's Grandmother) in the late 70's. Nothing.

What's important here is that I've decided to write an epic poem that would shock the likes of both Pound and Koch, make them feel the sheer ridiculousness of this even in their deaths. I will use words I don't even know the definition of and they will be big and weird and important. Come find me in 30 years or so to see how its coming along. Thus far, it hasn't even metamorphosed itself onto paper; It's just a sad little egg in my sad little head.

I'm also going to drop out of art school and open a brewery. My brewing years will be the best years for my ongoing poem. I promise to let all of you have running tabs at the bar, tabs you will never have to pay. Free beer is an endorphin.

I need to stop pretending to be rebellious now and read. Wait, let me use the word fuck here at least once and I will feel better. Okay, better now. Farewell and be kind.