I’m not looking for the easy way out, baby; I am not even looking for the golden door.
Give it to me hard, coarse, and dirty: give it to me where the blood and the gore converge into sin and panhandling, overdose and defecation.
Baby, I am privileged enough. I don’t need your diatribe; it will take me fifty years of penance just to get to your level of purity.
You think this is easy? You think I move my mouth in vain as you suck on a peach? They didn’t give me a job description, you know. They just said: you can’t kill yourself (or others) and you can’t lie.
Those are hard rules to live by. Please: don’t make it any more painful than necessary. At least we have something to eat.
From "At The End Of My Travels" by Daniel Viragh.