There was no romance and absolutely very little writing aside from bad poetry.
There were no interesting stories full of marginalized characters, people with scars, tattoos and great nick-names. The real drama came when passing the beer aisle at the local Harris Teeter grocery store. Yes or no? Import? Domestic? Six pack, twelve pack, eighteen pack, case?
He would get so drunk getting off the futon was a challenge. But he would. He would get up and stumble into the kitchen and toss the empty into the recycle bin then crack open another cold one. He’d check stock. No point in leaving a few, not enough to catch a buzz. So, he’d plan on drinking the rest that night or drive drunk to the grocery store for more, this time to the Food Lion across the street where the risk of being recognized by the cashiers, the only people who really saw him out with any frequency or potential for recognition, was lower than his disregard of alcoholism, because he wasn’t an alcoholic. He was a writer who wrote very little except bad poetry.
There was a story one time. It was set in a small North Carolina city. He woke up in someone else’s bed as a rooster crowed outside at the drizzly dawn. But he was drunk then, too, and never finished it.