What an excruciating film to watch! We are supposed to buy into the premise that the main character is some type of hero, enduring the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as he simply just wants to be a good writer. In fact, the movie shoves that premise down our throats. The problem is that what we see on screen is a soulless, empty alcoholic with no empathy for anyone outside of himself. He refuses to commit to any job or any woman who comes his way, purposefully (we assume) choosing awful jobs and trampy women who echo that non-attachment. Maybe that would be OK if the 'literature' he produces had merit, but if the samples he rambles on with in voice over are his best work, he should have been a farmer. They sound like a self-important college freshman's first efforts in Writing 101. Those voice overs, meanwhile, are delivered ala Matthew McCougheny's loathsome, satire producing Lincoln commercials, a low mumbling sans inflections. Watching this made me feel as though I was a poor guardian angel who had screwed up in the past and was condemned to have to watch over this man and see if I could get him to become a human being! The closing soliliquoy is insulting to any real artist, as he lays claim to having reached the only real freedom of living available to a sincere artist. Get me the puke bag, please.