Part 4 of The Story Of Krisargent
I haven't had the best of luck living with other writers. Hemingway regularly got falling-down stinky-pants drunk and cursed at me and threw things--a bolo knife from Madasgar once, I remember. He'd always wake up the next morning hangover-feeble and crying how sorry he was, curled sobbing on the couch in the dayroom like a little boy, big sleepy tears rolling out of his eyes and begging for coffee and forgiveness, blah, blah, blah, trying to hug me and rub my belly. I won't tolerate people trying to rub my belly.
Hemingway never should have started drinking. 
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