Jack Kerouac Never Wrote About HIM

It is a beautiful December night outside. The moon is big and bright. The sky is clear. It’s not too cold. It is the kind of night meant for layers, bonfires and warm drinks outside. Instead, I am inside, trying to figure out how to write about a villainous cross-dressing lobster who shares the same name with a Finnish rock band, and why it might not be so strange, after all, that I enjoy a show about certain equines meant for “little girls”. It’s not easy. The hardest part was figuring out what kind of drink this writing requires. The mead I’ll save for Skyrim, and the wine is too civilized for this type of work. I’m going with Wild Turkey. On the rocks.