You decide to relax a bit before reading the bio and have a beer.
For some reason you look down and you have drank most of the twelve pack and strewn the cans everywhere. You don't actually remember drinking all that beer.
Your head is swimming. You are more fucked up than if you drank beer. You notice that most of a whiskey bottle that you had stashed on top of the fridge is missing and the bottle is stashed into the cushions next to you on the couch.
The bio lays open in front of you, the pages all bent open, spine broken. Images of McFing's life swirl in your head triggering depression. You don't even remember reading the damned book. What is really odd is that you really don't want to read it now. You have a suffocating oppressed feeling like you have endured the heavy emotional unloading of an acquaintance. Yeah, its like McFing drunk dialed you and kept you on the phone for hours venting his miserable life. So harsh in the thought of this you chug the last of the whiskey at your side.
As your eyelids slump you feel as if you are being drawn back into the biographical narrative. A psychic audio book recited in drunken sobs...
You cannot escape cause you are in a paralyzed stupor...caused by the book or the alcohol you cannot or will never be certain.