(no subject)
I never write while drinking anymore. There's a tendency to linger on the factual instead of the fantastical. The factual tends to range from the pathetically obvious (such as the blonde's mating call "I'm sooooo drunk") to the uncomfortable (My wife and I *insert comment best kept dealt with at home here*)
There's also the spelling. God save us all from drunken spelling. Drinking clearly makes the typist an idiot with fingers the size of grapefruits.
Yet here I am, typing with half a bottle of wine and several beers mingling in my stomach.
You'd think I'd take this as my cue to stop typing before I do something silly, but here I remain typing.
No, actually I think not. There's no poetry in my soul these days. There's no muse teasing my ear. There's no literary inhibitions I feel the need to break free from. There is only a husband and father struggling to understand his role in the world and wondering how to fit without losing his identity (if indeed I ever really had one).
No, throw out the parenthesis in that last paragraph. Take away the sarcasm and the placating. What am I? Did I ever really figure out anything about communicating? Have I ever been successful at interactions? When was the last time I really made a difference?
Ah crap, look at me getting all emo. This is the beer and wine again, I swear. I'm not even really typing, I've long passed out and my forehead is simply rolling around interestingly... a kind of a 1000 monkeys with typewriters thing. You can blame the typos on that too. Blame the typos on my forehead that is, not the monkeys. I don't actually have any monkeys.
So no, I never write while drinking any more. It would simply be far, far too silly if that were to happen.
There's also the spelling. God save us all from drunken spelling. Drinking clearly makes the typist an idiot with fingers the size of grapefruits.
Yet here I am, typing with half a bottle of wine and several beers mingling in my stomach.
You'd think I'd take this as my cue to stop typing before I do something silly, but here I remain typing.
No, actually I think not. There's no poetry in my soul these days. There's no muse teasing my ear. There's no literary inhibitions I feel the need to break free from. There is only a husband and father struggling to understand his role in the world and wondering how to fit without losing his identity (if indeed I ever really had one).
No, throw out the parenthesis in that last paragraph. Take away the sarcasm and the placating. What am I? Did I ever really figure out anything about communicating? Have I ever been successful at interactions? When was the last time I really made a difference?
Ah crap, look at me getting all emo. This is the beer and wine again, I swear. I'm not even really typing, I've long passed out and my forehead is simply rolling around interestingly... a kind of a 1000 monkeys with typewriters thing. You can blame the typos on that too. Blame the typos on my forehead that is, not the monkeys. I don't actually have any monkeys.
So no, I never write while drinking any more. It would simply be far, far too silly if that were to happen.