One drink. Nope, everything's still terrible and impossible. Drink two. Still hate everyone, especially myself. Worse, still remember everything.

Third time's the charm. I should just stay here.

Four. Only one way out, and it isn’t gonna bring her back. So why fucking bother?

Five. I think I just told someone about it. How our brains are actually cosmic worm nests, and we’re symbiotic parasitical hosts that evolved around ‘em. God, I hope it wasn't the bartender. I want to be shitfaceder than this when they wake up.

Five. People say stupid things when they're drunk, right? Ignore me.

6ix. Of course the cops are in on it. Why else would they let the mayor in the big car and get to the cemetery in the when it's raining? At night? Coincidence? Right.

What number is this? Fine. I'm gonna. She's dead. Her body's not her. Just a bundle of worm wrappings anyway. Get ammonia, mix in the shavings, and burn it at the alignment, and I can save the world. Or prove I’m crazy and go to jail.

One for the road. And if I see the mayor in the cemetery I'm gonna kill him in his worm meats.