... ne rien prendre au sérieux

my personnal psychologist

you're a screwed-up Romantic, she said,
you read all the old philosophers and you
listen to Wagner and Mahler and you think
the ancient Chinese poets were hot shit, yet
you're depraved, you're at the racetrack
every day and you know that's sick and
all that wine you drink, it's eating
your brain away, and when you get drunk
you talk about what a great fighter you
used to be, even though you admit you
took more beatings than you gave.
you dislike people and love animals.
I really don't know what the hell you're
all about - you just grab at things, you rely
solely on instinct and your prejudices
and sometimes I think you're retarded.
it was your childhood, you didn't get any
love so it's hard for you to give any,
you just get drunk and call every woman a
whore.

listen, I said, isn't there any more
beer?
and where the hell are the cigarettes?
there were 3 on this table a moment ago and
now they're allgone!

Charles Bukowski