I like being in a room where I know someone smoked a few cigarettes. I like being in a room with empty bottles of liquor. I like sitting in these rooms that have a heavy air of self loathing and a stifling sense of despair because I feel a sickeningly comfortable sense of belonging there, because the greatest of the literary greats once sat there. I’ll smoke a cigarette every once in a while, not enough to call myself a smoker but enough to feel poetic. I don’t drink, not really, the burn of it keeps me from enjoying the arts. It might just be my age. I’m not sure, I’m not sure of anything really. I like the smell of stale smoke in a room and the litter of booze because it makes me feel experienced, like what I write is worth a damn, but it’s not, it’s juvenile, it’s mediocre and it scares me that it’s all I will ever be; juvenile and mediocre. I toss around the notion that my life might be so unbearable that my writing will make the literary geniuses— if you can call them that— of my time revel in its existence. I often find myself dreaming that maybe one day I will be a morbid, smoking alcoholic who writes beautiful nothings to a beautiful no one who once broke my broken heart, Like All The Treats.