New Year's Eve is like any other eve to me: I drink.
And if there is anybody out there who is crazy enough to want to become a writer, I'd say go ahead, spit in the eye of the sun, hit those keys, it's the best madness going, the centuries need help, the species cry for light and gamble and laughter. Give it to them. There are enough words for all of us.
I was simply the target of their discontent and in some real sense they blamed me for not being able to rouse them out of a failed past; what they didn't consider was that I had my troubles too—most of them caused by simply living with them.
At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.