Category: Drunk

Wrighter XV

9/6/2014

What is it about the lens of fantasy that makes reality so much more palatable? Talking to someone about racism is bound to lead to reinforced misconceptions about the boundaries of perception and reaction to what we feel is different, or a black eye. But throw in a wizard and some orcs and suddenly people can read and talk about ideas without a lynch mob forming. There’s something in the ability of fiction to remove us from ourselves. The further away a concept is from our own reality the easier we can deal with it. And though knee jerk reactions are great for reality TV and cable “news”, they make for horrible thoughtful conversation.

I spent a few years only reading comics. I’m not sure if it was because they were easy to find in newspaper strewn streets or if they had some special draw. I suppose I mean because there were newspapers in the street and I was too drunk and angry to read the articles. Even the poorest drawn and weakest wit of comics holds some allure. So far from our own reality perhaps they hold the key to true human insight. … …

Nope, just easy to read and I don’t have to remember more than a couple panels at a time. Squiggles with some loose ties to conversation. Comics are their own form of poorly managed language, changing with the years and soaked in rainwater. It’s raining.

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Wrighter XIII

9/6/2014

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So much more seems acceptable when you're drunk. Or maybe it is more acceptable. Sure, it looks bad if you pee in the middle of the street at 2pm, but draining out on a wall after closing hour is a regular part of life. And I have some decent perspective on this, as I've done them both sober and drunk. The drunk out numbers the sober in a way that makes me remember how bad I am with ratios. Also: a whole fucking lot. Once I peed on some guy in a business suit on his way home from work. I'm not sure if it makes it any better he paid me to do it. Not that I was advertising that I'm willing to wee on strangers for cash, he just saw something about me and asked. Which, I suppose, is the worst case scenario.

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Writer X

5/10/2014

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My life seems very long, right up until I read something I had written. I read over some musings or ideas or complaints or triumphs of the human spirits imagined or real, and it could have been a week ago, a month at the most I scribed it. Until I look at the date and see years have passed. Passed along with relationships jobs apartments feuds bets and cares. Yet somehow my writing remains at most a month away. I look back and see how little I’ve written, how little of myself I’ve penned for later me or god forbid anyone but you to see. My memory can barely hold my bitch sister’s name and her slew of kids. Wait, one kid, Michael. He’s just so sweepingly flamboyant it seems like there’re eight of him when I’m drunk. And I’m usually drunk. Not that that’s a bad thing (the flamboyancy) he just has a certain ardent fluidity that looks like a time delay shot on a camera when he moves. His mom has finally admitted that he’s gay, but she calls it “cute” or “a little phase”. Same way she described by alcohol “problem” when I had my first full week blacked out. So we can pretty much discount that theory. No, he’ll be fine. Gay indeed! Maybe next time I’ll start drinking AFTER I start writing one of these. It’s just too damn depressing, babbling ink through a rusty typewriter for a fucking check. But, it’ll be a good goal. Almost forgot what it was like to have one of those. Because drinking isn’t a goal, it a tactic. Drunk just helps me achieve my goal of not thinking about my shitty life for a bit. God damn it I’m a depressing fuck. Maybe I’ll do some community service. Though I seem to remember me being someone’s community service, so maybe I’ll just try to stop being such a whiney shit. The cockroaches look happy, why shouldn’t I be as happy as them? Because they live rent free! Why is my typewriter rusty?

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Wrighter IIX

1/12/2013

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I find that laughter is a particularly effective tool for hale health and disposition. Unfortunately I'm running out of nitrous oxide. When I do use it my mind feels numb for days. Really a win win. I'm not one to huff glue or sniff markers; having so few values makes one hold even harder to the ones you do possess. I recycle my plastic gin bottles, never read tabloids, and always eat my animal grade tuna with a fork. When I was 8 I remember sniffing cherry scented markers and laughing while my sister ate pasta with her hands. And in the middle of my manic, berry odored laughing she shoved the marker up my nose. Hmmm... perhaps my non marker sniffing sensibility is just trained behavior. Well now my sister takes Vicodin til her kids get blurry and I drink whiskey until my nightmares and daydreams smooth out into a manageable mix of wonder and terror. At least I don't eat with my hands. Slob.

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Wrighter VI

12/22/2012

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I've always wondered what waits for me when I die. I assume I'll wake up dead some crap morning and realize there's a boulder or some lava or snakes in my rent controlled fire hazard. Then some searing pain and uncontrollable fear surging through my veins, only topped by the realization that there is none of the horrid visions and I'm just stuck in the same fucking life.

I am exquisitely tired. A filigree of days steeped in alcoholic terrors and nights slipping in and out of consciousness without will or knowledge. I drink during the day until I drink to fall asleep. Then I try and sleep until I pass out and dream about some decent liquor and my bitch of a sister dancing on my mother's grave. Which would be a weird dream if I hadn't seen it happen. I guess it's still a weird dream, but fuck off. What I wouldn't kill for a wet dream. Really anything other than the same dreams I have every goddamned night. Do you really read this? My sober enough to write drunk enough to not care what I write ramblings stained with grease and condensation from a plastic water bottle on whatever paper I shove into my typewriter. I think I sent the last rambling on the back of a letter I never sent. I need it back. I forgot to put postage on it. 8 times. Eventually the post office decided to send it. Or keep it. I'm tired.

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Wrighter IV

9/18/2012

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I sometimes get lost in my keyboard. Not literally lost, obviously that comes later when I realize the moldy rye and malt liquor are giving me crazy daytime dreams. About being a little tiny man stuck in the typewriter keys, praying its owner gives up letters and forms entirely and watches the tv and yells at his wife or cactus or kids like a normal fucking person. No. I just stare at them for hours. Sometimes unmoving, sometimes letting my fingers wander over them and depress, pressing ever so slightly so I can feel the give without touching ink to the page with a shark crack that means… I’ll probably need to press another one. And another one. And so on and so forth for another billion fucking keystrokes or so until my fingers are bloody and I need a whole bottle of white because in the every of middle page I started typing the letter g because I thought it was a beautiful woman. Curved and salacious, the temptress sitting in the centre of my needlessly qwerty board. It haunts me. Ghastly, greedy, grandiose, grating eye that stares at me when I’m too drunk to see but not stop typing. Like Braille it hastens to my every touch, appearing more often than possible. Great ginger greedily grasping at me gladly going where no man hasn’t gone, gone to galaxies trapped in the tiny dots who trace my every movement from the inside of my eyes when they’re open or closed.

I really need to stop taking the dog Prozac I stole from some rich bitch in conjunction with the expired sleeping pills and thought lost to an open waste bin. Because wow. Like. Fuck. You know? Of course you don’t. Anyone with enough money to pay me weekly for this crap and sick enough to enjoy it must be on something better. Horse Vicodin? Share? Of course not, I know, words go one way money goes the other. And I’m drained of my thoughts but the hamsters in your head keep making you rich. The friction from their little wheels absorbed by the yeti living in your chest.

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Wrighter III

8/15/2012

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Painkillers are a funny thing. In that, I spent 8 hours uncontrollably laughing after mixing nitrous oxide and Oxycontin. It’s an odd feeling to be laughing like a fucking madman while you pull muscles in your gut. Bust a gut. I get that now. Laughing while vomiting: the tried and true combinations of degenerates and drug addicts everywhere. Seriously, what the hell are you doing with these? This is the strangest way I’ve ever been paid; just write mail and blow the cash on a jar of peanut butter and 3 handles of plastic flavored vodka. There is a place I’ve found somewhere in the mix of eating to survive drinking to numb and living to see if something different happens tomorrow. There’s no point in living a shit life if every day after gets shittier. Of course, suicide seems a little extreme so if I just happen to fall off consciousness forever greased by the burning of gin there’s not much loss. And writing. This idea of scribbles somehow capturing what we say, or even sillier what we think. Shit. Thinking hurts. In my left temple and my right ankle. Pretty sure it’s from the thinking. Thinking is the leading cause of society, society is the leading cause of stupidity, stupidity is the leading cause of making more stupid people. Maybe I should have kids! Not like, mine, but ya know, an extra one. Just pop on down to the neighborhood orphanarium and grab someone to pass on my massive legacy of failure and drinking. See, thinking, society, kids, it’s all screwed up. Someone should fix it. Like a… plumber for society. With his ass crack of justice flashing every time he bends over to fix a dictator or crime or whatever analogy you’d like for a leak. My uncle was a plumber. for years he made plumb and true the pipes of our houses and other houses dumb enough to hire him around ours. Or maybe my uncle killed that plumber for... for... Whichever, the moral of the story is you can trust a family member with a pipe wrench if you're not paying them.

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Wrighter

10/9/2011

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You know what I hate? Writing. And you. I hate you a lot, but you pay me to write. And if you remember, I also hate writing. This puts me in quite a conundrum, as I really need money. I’m two months behind on rent, I ran out of gas in my car, and I’m eating animal grade tuna. I don’t know why you pay me for this, but I stopped caring. So I’ll give you a paragraph and get enough cash for a pack of cigarettes and people food.

I became a writer so I could be my own boss. Unfortunately, I’m a pretty crappy boss. The fact that I rarely work is probably the least of my innumerable and debilitating leadership dis-qualities. My laptop works for about 12 minutes, while plugged in, then runs out of batteries. It is slower than an opium addled sloth and functions slightly better than FDR’s legs. My mild alcoholism doesn’t react well with my bitter an eeyore –esqe personality, but it keeps me grounded. At home. On the floor. But if I’m on the couch hung over at least I’m not writing which is, as my Elmer glue filled joints will attest, the death of me which takes more years off my life than any bender I can afford. When I write the money hits me like hot leather seat on my thighs, comforting at first but never worth the pain. Usually it gets deposited in the Super Cheeps liquor store down the block. They started double knotting the bag they put it in so I wouldn’t keep drinking in the parking lot. 40 ouncers and me and public don’t mix well. Me and public don’t mix well, but the malt liquor adds an edge, an edge that usually involves my fighting with skateboarders, yelling at cops, or falling asleep on top of other people cars. So I come home with half my salary in a few plastic bags, stare at the dark tv that hasn’t had cable in years, and start drinking my way into a place that I’m finally relaxed. Unfortunately I’m blacked out, so I don’t remember much about the place. But that’s still better than the dump I live in. I used to have a dog, but he ran off in the park one day. Or maybe that was my wife. They run off together? No, one of them was hit by a van. It was a long time ago. I’m not callous, just happened a long time ago. And I’m drunk. Drunk. At least a quarter of the first bag drunk. I don’t drink absinthe. My liver starts talking with me when I drink absinthe. And it only ever wants to talk politics. I don’t mind talking politics, but my liver is a real jerk and just yells at me about socializing the dance clubs and the speaker’s job in the senate. I used to watch C-Span. Bunch of ugly people running the country. We need more hot senators. Then more people would watch c-span. Politics should be more like telemundo. I don’t get telemundo, but my Cuban neighbors do, now I can count to five in Spanish and know the word for goal is the same as in English. At least it’s pronounced the same. Soccer is a funny game, funny in that if you watch it drunk enough it doesn’t make you depressed. Basketball and football and hockey are depressing. Bunch of rich buff people who endorse toxic coffee and bubble gum. But soccer players are just trying to win so their home town doesn’t riot. I hate the taste of my mouth after waking up from being blacked out. I once drank ajax thinking it was powdered coffee. I don’t remember why drinking powdered coffee seemed like a good idea, but at least I didn’t pour boiling water in my mouth. But I think the ajax made my teeth into wax. They keep moving. I didn’t want to become a writer, but I can write with my eyes closed. So I didn’t have to look at the other kids looking back at me, mother staring and seeing I wasn’t going to make it. Didn’t have to see my dad throwing the television into the pool when he got fired. Which, by the way, when you throw a tv in the pool it doesn’t work afterwards. Didn’t see the fire started by my old neighbor’s kid. Ex neighbors. Ex kid. But I heard it all. And I can’t write what I heard, though those sounds are clear as vision now. Still my memories in sound don’t include the dirty carpet I sleep on, can’t translate the pounding of base guitar into words. Pounding. Base guitars don’t pound. I pound. The dog pound. The dog found Jack and Jill rolling down a hill. I met them once. Nice people. Got married and own a ranch in Montana. Read about their ranch. No animals, only corn. Corn can’t bite you. Hope it can’t bite you. Haven’t ever seen live corn. On the stalk, maybe it bites. What the hell do I know.

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Wrighter XV

Wrighter XIII

Writer X

Wrighter IIX

Wrighter VI

Wrighter IV

Wrighter III

Wrighter

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