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I'm Bryce, I am twenty. I am actually a character from a Charles Bukowski novel made flesh by the mysterious power of E.E. Cummings poetry and filterless Lucky Strikes. My body is a filthy place, full of rotting flesh, half digested meats, and the acrid smells of tobacco and tar. My brain is dying from drug addiction. I sometimes lose all my motor skills and bladder functionality. I'm a bitter, misogynistic old man, and I've never felt better in my life.

“I am basically the most superficial person in the world.” - Karl Lagerfeld