"Fuck" is, by far, my favorite word in the English language. It just has so many uses, you know? For instance, one could say "This is so fucking cool," or "I'm gonna get fucked up tonight," or even the ever poetic, "Let's fuck."

I can happily say that I have said each of these at least twice this week. It's only Tuesday.

This whole thing is hysterical; just think about it from my point of view for just a second, okay? I am sitting here, writing this story, picturing how each of you is gonna react to what I just wrote. Little Jimmy's over there freaking the hell out over my language, I can see it. I mean, I just took a quote from the fucking Bible and immediately followed it by the word "fuck." I just did it again, too.

Yeah, I'm going to Hell.

So if you're reading this and you're like a Jesus freak or anything, just know that I acknowledge that I am doomed for all eternity. You don't have to tell me. For God's sake, if another one of you tries to "fix" me, I am gonna fucking stab you.

If you couldn't tell already, this story probably isn't what you expected. Remember when you were younger and your parents told you not to judge a book by its cover and then turned a blind eye to the drunk on the side of the road? Yeah, that. It's not even just drunks. They turned a blind eye to everything and everyone. It could be the Jew on road, the Muslim, even the Catholic. I know my parents did. For the sake of this story, though, I will be sticking with the drunk. After all, that's me.

Speaking of, I might as well start the story. Maybe you will get something out of this, maybe you won't. I'm sick of the whole "Write for the reader" bullshit. Who says the author can't have fun, maybe mix it all up a little? You might get through the entire thing, think that this was complete and utter bullshit, crumple it up, burn it, make it into an airplane and have it dive-bomb a city — just read the fucking story. If you finish and just think to yourself, "Wow this guy just really likes fucking," or "This guy is fucking gross," I will only be slightly inclined to get drunk enough to punch you.

Anyway, this is my story of a particularly interesting night. I will be sure to enjoy.

You know the saying, "Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker"? It used to be a little too stereotypical for me, but now, I know it is real. I could never leave this place now. Growing up in the city, skyscrapers were my trees, concrete and asphalt my grass, beer my water.

My friends used to call me "Beer Jesus" for that very reason.

I can see the gates opening already.

So, I was living in my old apartment at the time. No, I didn't move out for some plot device, or to symbolize that I was ready to change and move into a new version of myself as I moved to my new apartment. I just got offered a place with lower rent. You don't always have to read so far into things. That symbolization bullshit is a good idea, though. I might have to use that.

I lose my train of thought a lot. You might as well get used to it now.

Where was I? Oh yeah, my old apartment. Yes, drunks have money sometimes. How do you think we pay for fucking beer?

So, I was in my old apartment. I had just woken up. It was almost 7 at night. The floors were strewn with newspaper pages, beer bottles, Solo cups; my buddies and I would catch roaches and see who could find the biggest one. I still hold the record for the biggest. Sally was a whole inch and a half.

So I was in my apartment lying in bed. I looked around the room at the puss-yellow paint and the places in which it peeled. In one corner, I had covered up a huge stain, probably beer, with a mirror, and in the other stood my desk. There was also a small dresser in there, too, somewhere between the desk and the mirror. I opted out of the TV and bought clothes instead.

From my bed, I could see out the open door to my kitchen — the same strew of refuse littered the floor. I could make out a condom on the faucet. Sally hung from the string attached to the ceiling fan. It was a crazy night.

I got out of bed and cut my foot on a beer can. As my foot crunched down on it, I felt the metal sliver slice the bottom of my foot. It fucking hurt, mind you; I walked over to the bathroom to clean myself up.

Now you're probably asking yourself if it was so dirty and you hurt yourself on the metal, why wouldn't you clean up your apartment? The answer, my dear friend, is simply that I am lazy. I think I just coined a phrase. Also, by the time I get them back here, we are both too far gone to think about it. We have one thing on our minds by that point.

So anyway, after my foot was clean and a Hello Kitty Band-Aid was in place (they were on sale, fucking sue me), I carefully stepped back into my room and over to my dresser.

"Saturdays are for hangovers and Sundays are for worship," my dad always said. He was right about the hangover part, that's for sure. I'll be joining him down below. He was the epitome of "Do as I say, not as I do." Needless to say, neither one of us really follow the worship part.

I reached the dresser clutching my throbbing head and pulled out some clothes. Pinstriped grey pants, a matching vest and jacket, white shirt and grey tie; anything that'll get me laid. I'm Barney Stinson incarnate.

So I finished dressing then sidestepped over to the mirror the fix my hair and shave. I slicked it back with some gel that I had bought a month back. The feeling of a comb going through your hair and lightly grazing your scalp is euphoric. My hangover was out of my mind by now.

After my hair was combed back I began to shave my face clean of any stragglers. I swear the taste of alcohol causes them to pop up like dicks at a strip club.

Once the last one was off, I reached over for my cologne. One squirt to the neck, one to the left wrist, rub them together. Bam.

I sat back down on my bed and pulled on a pair of black socks from my dresser. I had to be careful as I pulled it over my Band-Aid. We couldn't have Kitty say goodbye, now could we?

I bent down on the floor next, I think; I stored my shoes under my bed. I pulled them out, dusted them off, and shined them up with some shoeshine that I had next to them underneath the bed. I smeared the dark tar-like stuff over the scuffs on the front. I had been planning to buy a new pair of shoes during the week after work.

Yeah, yeah, I work. I have bills. I'm human. For now, at least. I guess when we are dead we aren't human anymore. Are we?

Enough philosophical bullshit, back to the story.

So, I finished getting ready to leave, put on my watch, looked down to see the hands still going and headed out. I have never lost faith in that old thing. It was my dad's.

The watch read 7:30 and I knew we were all gonna be meeting up at the club at 8. I remember walking very quickly, even though the cut on my foot started to hurt again as I walked. I don't think Hello Kitty was enjoying herself.

As I walked down the city streets I took in the familiar sounds and smells. There was Johnny with his hot dog cart down at the corner, shouting at passersby in English and then again in Spanish.

"Get your hot dogs, here!"

"¡Consigan sus perritos calientes aqui!"

I always found it funny how his tongue bounced up and down as he yelled "perritos."

The buildings in the city have never ceased to amaze me, either. The structures and their sheer massiveness are just fucking incredible. Like we built those. Humans. Un-fucking-believable.

Anyway, I was walking at a brisker pace than usual, so I scooted past a lot of the places I normally liked to stop. I don't really need to mention them all, though. At this point, y'all probably just want me to get to the fucking story and stop talking about buildings and hot dog carts and shaving and just get to the club already or you're trying to find some hidden meaning in a place where there isn't one. Stop that. I had one stop that I had to make. The bank was a necessity. If you're going to a club, only carry as much money as you plan on spending. That way, drunk-you has a limit. Look at me being all helpful and shit. I should be a teacher.

After I stopped at the bank, picked up exactly 100 bills, and checked the time, I continued at a slightly brisker pace.

I was late.

The boys were already there, the bar covered in empty, full, and half empty cups; each of them at varying stages of drunk, completely mesmerized by the girls. The barkeep handed me a glass of tap, I unbuttoned my jacket and sat down on the bar stool. I ended up paying very little attention to the boys for the rest of the night. The barkeep was a little too interesting for me to look away from. Now, normally I swing one way, but there was just something about this guy. If it fits, it ships, am I right?

His face was like one of those fancy paintings in a museum. I mean, I wouldn't know. Who the fuck goes to museums anymore? I do suppose that I would have gone if the pictures had been of him.

His eyes were blue as toothpaste and his arms looked like he could crush a beer can between his biceps. His hair was parted on the left side. His plain white button-down was left open a few buttons at the top. I could see his pecs just a little under the hair. He had no stragglers left behind on his face. That man was packing the goods. Both alcohol and dick-and-balls.

It rhymed in my mind, okay?

So, he looks over at me, and I ask him his name.

"Hope."

I took a sip or two or three of my beer. He poured me another.

"Have you been working here long?"

"No, I'm new. First night on the job, actually."

"It doesn't get distracting with all these girls dancing around?"

I was testing the waters. When it's a guy, you've got more to worry about.

"No, not really," he said, "I'm just here to do my job and then I go."

I was on my third beer at this point.

"Are you sure? I mean, look at 'em! They're really shaking it up over there. Woo! Yeah!"

I threw a few bills across the room at them. He looked upset.

"Something wrong?"

"It's nothing, I just…"

"Spit it outttttt." I whined and punched him lightly on the arm.

"I just… I thought you might be gay, that's all."

"Are youuuuuu?"

"Yeah," he said, "I am."

I reached myself over the bar and kissed him right on the lips. I could feel the strength emanating off him.

He looked startled but happy.

Like I said, by the time I get them back to my room, they are too drunk to see how dirty it is. We were making out against the door, against the walls, against my little dresser.

After that, a lot of it is a blur. We fucked, that's for sure, but I don't remember much else.

Oh yeah, he told me that he loved me.

I said it back, of course.

When you're that drunk, you'll say just about anything for it. Believe me.

I woke up the next day, in bed this time, with him lying next to me. I was immediately repulsed at his messy hair, his naked body, his stragglers that were starting to form.

I woke him up, he looked up at me with his blue eyes, and I knew it was time.

I told him the same thing that I always do. That it was great, that I was telling the truth when I said it, that I would call him.

I didn't.

The end.

What? Not enough for you? Did you want me to change by the end or something? Abandon my ways and become a moral human? I told you I wasn't going to from the start; that there may not even be a point to all of this. This is life. I don't give a flying fuck what you think. This is for me, remember?