1001 Insomniac Nights

“My point,” I said. “You don’t want to talk about God; you want to talk about something serious so you can take your mind off how depressed you are. God’s just a good segue. So why don’t we talk about your self-fulfilling delusions, specifically concerning girls?”

Six drinks into the night, Brent could barely sit upright. “I want a tattoo!” he declared.

Oh, yeah. The curse thing. Might as well get to that.

Without all of Brent’s whining and self-deprecation, the story goes something like this: