I look out the window and I see a middle-aged man wiping his little dog’s ass, as it looks back at him, probably wondering how pathetic human life is. My dad has a take on that: “A man has to stomach a lot of shit before kicking the bucket.” He also wipes his dogs’ asses, like it’s no big deal. He has probably endured plenty of shit in his life already; enough to make him comfortable removing it from some beast’s hairy asshole.

On the asshole note, I lost my adult anal virginity to a 70-year-old man, a couple of days ago. I went to the doctor because my gut has been acting up, all swollen and bloated again. “I have to check your anus, get some samples,” he said, smiling. I laid on my side, facing the wall, my naked ass sticking out towards him. The man got the job done with three different anal swabs. I sighed. Life just keeps getting better and better. My guts, worse and worse.

Going cold turkey on my pills might not have been the best idea. Anxiety came back and settled in, feeling all nice and comfortable, at home in my fucked up head. I haven’t been a good boy, though. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of saying “Fuck you. This is what you get.” Or something.

At least my writing drive is slowly returning. Angst squeezes more words out of me than the sense of happiness, that’s for sure. Writers, you know, are such clichés. But I’m not drinking. Haven’t done it in seven months. We could agree that I’m a cliché with an edge.

The Muse haven’t sit on my lap yet. She stares at me from the other end of the bar, as I sip a lemonade with mint and a touch of ginger. “Faggot,” she thinks, as she downs her third whisky, neat. But I’m okay with it. I have a 5-year plan to fulfill. A gut to cure. Anxiety to deal with. And an ass to wipe. Luckily, my own. There’s still some dignity left in me.