They call me the drunk monk. I stagger into town, eyelids drooped in the weight of my inebriation, and spittle out with nothing but vomit and curse words. Later I fall down pretty hard.
Maybe you did not know this about me? I've seen you out and about you say, and you seemed relatively sober, calm, quiet. You were wearing a sweater whose weaves screamed that you are available to care about someone's needs with straight leg jeans to boot. You were reading a big boring book about turtles.
I laugh when you say this. I don my hood and utter wise things, things like "It's a nickname stupid," and I vomit my drunk guts onto your shoes. That seems to do the trick.
Don't worry about your shoes though. It's invisible vomit. Sort of like invisible ink. You can only see it if you use lemon juice.
Avoid lemon juice.
