“Drink more. Eat more. Fuck more.”
It was 7 in the morning on the first of January.
“Fun resolutions,” the girl who brought the hung-over writer his breakfast said.
He concurred, knocking back his first of many whiskies that day.
“Though rather gluttonous,” the girl continued.
“My favourite sin,” the writer answered, digging into his eggs Benedict.
“Is there anything you’re planning on doing less of, perchance?”
He shook his head, then seemed to change his mind.
“Perhaps writing.”
As someone who had read both of his rambling novels, that was one New Year’s resolution the girl would root for.
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