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[53] G e T T i n G A r r e S T e D i know i’m not the only drunk in the tank, logging lonely hours on a gurney bunk, whiskering off a few fingers of scotch— there goes a poor bastard heaving out a bluesy riff of vomit, praying to his virgin mother and all her Tupperware friends. Sure, the cops got patience and sobriety, but i’ve got a flounce in my pocket, a toenail chandelier, a diamond man in Calcutta, an appetite for all things burritoesque. i can occupy the infinity between now and bail time with ease. Orange, my favorite way to color a hillside, is also somewhat complementary to my personality— nothing rhymes with either of us. Chain me down, throw the dogs at me and unleash the book. Give my bread to the guy down the hall. We’ve got all night to start choosing sides. ...

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