I gravitated to the fucked up writers. Hunter S. Thompson, Hemingway, William S. Burroughs, Raymond Chandler, Tennessee Williams, Dylan Thomas, Jack Kerouac, Truman Capote, Charles Bukowski, William Faulkner. There weren't many women in my list. Dorothy Parker, and that was about it. Somehow, hand in hand with booze and drugs, the terrible dance that substances led me on became one that I must perfect to be a writer. It was a required necessity, an essential rite of passage, and my writing heroes' words were the proof. I drank, gurned, snorted, swallowed and hallucinated like they did. That waltz into the dark was absolutely crucial for me in order to write like them—even if the familiar, haunting beautiful chimes of The Blue Danube led me instead to the depths of degradation, I could still write about it.
The Finnish people love to drink.
The city council in Sheboygan, Wisconsin wants to remove the mayor from office because he's a self-proclaimed alcoholic who recently went on a three-day bender during which he got into a fight and passed out at some schlubby tavern that, from pictures, looks just like how stale Cheese Doodles smell.
Hot flashes! Poop eating! Shingles cure! Alcoholism medication! Alzheimer's test! Organ transplants! Smallpox preservation! Vaccine seizures! Cancer breastfeeding! And a little encouragement for the sexually promiscuous eating-disordered ladies! It's your Friday Health Watch, where we watch your health—yes, yours!