Wyatt Holloway is an alcoholic suffering from severe insomnia, rapidly descending into madness. He’s on the wrong side of thirty and finding it increasingly difficult to deal with the monotony of the self-obsessed world around him. That is, until he meets Victor— a seemingly omniscient voice of wisdom who promises that together the two of them can change everything. Enticed by the offer made by his intriguing new friend, Wyatt is catapulted into a frenzied odyssey of hazy realities and illicit behavior, hoping that he may once again feel alive and in control of his own existence. "Sounds interesting!"
haven’t slept for days, or maybe it’s been weeks. Hell, I’m not even sure anymore. I’ve been popping Ambien from the unmarked pill bottle sitting on the table next to me like it was my job, washing them down with a bottle of Davy Crockett brand whiskey. It’s a very strict regimen, but here I am still awake— unable to even black out drunk and on drugs.
I can only assume my insomnia is some sort of stress induced ailment. Money has been pretty tight lately and th...
More than twenty minutes late yet again. Annie did her best to get me up and moving before she left for work this morning, but I just couldn’t get myself together. I must look so disheveled to my coworkers— running into the office with my shirt only half tucked into my wrinkled khakis and my shoelaces practically untied. Combine that with my unkempt balding head and the pair of swollen black bags sagging solemnly beneath my sunken in eyes and you’ve got a drop-dead looker on your hands&...
hat a fucking day. Almost fired for repeated tardiness, only managing to make two measly sales (each of which I had to fight for tooth and nail), delirium, hallucinations, pounding headaches, and now I’m stuck standing behind this lumbering biker at my local pit stop as he attempts to hit on the owner’s daughter, Shelly.
“Babe, I’m tellin’ ya that you ain’t never had no ride like what old Scooter has planned for ya. Like I said, why don’t you and me ...
nnie’s prepared what used to be my favorite: roast beef and baby red potatoes slow cooked in the crock pot. At this moment the mere sight of food is repulsive, the commingling of smells tickling my taste buds like a dose of ipecac.
“Wyatt, I wish you’d eat something. Anything, really,” Annie says pleading.
“I’m just… not hungry.”
“Well I haven’t seen you eat anything in days. Nothing except for that damn bottle you’re always...
Another delirious night spent glued to the boob tube. I’m pretty sure Annie went to bed hours ago. I vaguely recall the sound of light sobs lost in a clattering of dishes and the slamming of our bedroom door, but I can’t be sure— nothing seems real anymore. The Late Night Show with Dale Winters just ended. He was interviewing some fashion mogul who said that the key to her success was that ‘she really appreciates beautiful things.’ That, and she bagged a super wealt...