Sleep Tight Wallace, or Here's a Toast--To Men Named 'Dave'

What?

Are you looking at me?

What do you want?

Yeah, I'm drunk, so...what?  At least I'm not fucking dead.

Yeah, don't even look at me.  I fucking HERE; battling it out.  Yeah, I get it.  It was fucking hard for you.  You think this is a picnic?

I'm just here, taking a piss.  There you are, hanging on the wall, because I fucking PUT you there.  And now I have to hear you complain?  How would you have done anything different?  No really, Dave, how??

Easy for you, 'cause you're a fucking genius.  I'm left here battling it out, no fucking MCCARTHER GENIUS GRANT for me, as I cross a frozen 5th Avenue listening to the man imploring me to check out the discount breakfast trying (me) to figure out where the smell of fresh cut wood came from...go ahead, hang yourself.  I'll be here, fighting the fight you laid out for me.

No one said it would be easy...