Only a masochist writes in the morning.

I could be bounded in a nutsack and count myself the king of infinite sperm, were it not that I keep waking up.

Over the sound of clinking glasses, the grinding of social machinery, a voice said 'but you're a star'.
Please, do not feed the animal.

Today I intend to forgo myself. In the kitchen, I vowed to Jack that I will no longer chase my drinks from glass to glass, no longer run after women or degrade them as I degrade myself.
He tried to dissuade me.
It matters little. Cannot change the nature of the beast.
Perhaps, though, you can chain him, keep him away from friends and family. You can imagine, for a while, that he is not so wild. Not so irrevocably bound to the rhythm of his carnal appetite.

 It puts on a suit. It has to start somewhere.