only 2 in

I'm not nearly drunk enough. Only mad at the world, two in. I need more to get me there. How must I reach them in the car? If they're not gone. 

UPDATE: Success. Door is closed, guys outside on porch drinking Sam Adams summer ale. I jomped out to the car and came back with real, summer shandys. Because the guys wanted what I had. As they should. 

More writing, what the fuck am I writing about? I'm still thinking too much about what the fuck I want to write. What am I on about? 

Fact: Just as Loudon allows me to write songs, Bukowski allows me to write words. It's not that I rip off Loudon directly (or on purpose) but I say, "wtf would he do? How would Loudon write it?" I listen and study his music (and enjoy it too) and it seeps into mine. "influence" i suppose it's called. With writing like here, where I'm just dicktating (i know) to vomit my thoughts out, stream of consciousness, I type it as if I hear Bukowski's voice reading it. Even if it's pathetic and nothing like him I use his pernouncing an