I will drink whisky until my heart explodes (or my wife comes back)

I've been reading Raymond Carver's "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love." And, of course, Carver is supposed to be the greatest short story writer of our time, give or take a nickel, and every one of his stories is individually masterful, but after awhile, you get the idea that you're reading the same story over and over. And that story goes something like this:

I am a manly man, grr! But I have feelings I cannot express. Grr! Grr? Watch me do something weird to try to express what I cannot say: I am throwing rocks at the moon, screwing a diner waitress and leaving in the middle of the night, trashing my ex-wife's new boyfriend's car. Wait, that didn't really work. Grrrr! My frustration is deeply significant. The end.