WM_0012 ::::::::: Inebriation
May 02, 2003
Difficult to say, at times, what one was thinking
when one was drunk and writing. At least it's
somewhat concerting. Not a complete fucking idiot.
Of course, when one realizes that the only time
one writes is when absolutely shitfaced, that
is disconcerting. As disconcerting as realizing
that most of one's writing is written when one
is not getting fucked, or when one has been absolutely
abandoned for one's psychosexual games, rampant
intoxicant discourses and insufferable over dramatic
self destructive gestures.
But, nothing could be as disconcerting as facing
the music before the age of thirty, realizing
the void, and thinking, Christ, might as well
drink myself the whole way there and be done with
it, if only I wouldn't look so fucking goddaawful
in the morning which might eventually implicate
my ability to get laid. Cause, you know, whether
one wants to admit it or not, the thought has
crossed my mind.
I knew an old lady who ate it at 61. She was a
character. She had cancer, and over the last year
they brought the Scotch in by the caseload. Nobody
ever used the word alcoholic to describe her,
and no one ever said she had a problem, even though
she drank hard her entire life. Perhaps because
it wasn't a problem. It was just a part of her.
And everybody loved her. She loved to drink and
talk to her friends and smoke cigarettes by the
carton. Like old Findley and Purdy and whoever
else that drank hard, smoked hard, fucked hard
and did it defiantly without giving a fuck, cause
what the fuck else is there?
So I'm not entirely worried, as I ante up the
bartender for another refill. Fuck it. Love me
like this, or love me not at all. Cheers, love.
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