Nipponese Comfort


It’s been eleven alcohol-filled hours and it still hurts.

For the first time in my life I feel betrayed by my bladder. Every time I go to the toilet it voids the last half an hours work.

Pissing into sobriety.

I stick my hand into the pocket of his coat and when I pull it out there are three coins in it. One by one I drop them onto the bar and mutter a name in syllables.








The coin continues to roll down the length of the bar until it falls silently to the carpeted floor. The bartender looks from the edge of the world to me. Expectant.

The line pissing into sobriety is flawed. I’ve known this for a long time, yet I’ve never managed to evict it from my headspace. It is wonderful and perfect and here’s the excuse for using it: drunk loigic. Bite me. This story was originally part of a larger whole, but I’ve resigned it temporarily whilst I contemplate.


~ by Joseph Blame on September 12, 2010.

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