Creative Juices

One man and a bottle of Captain's.

The date is the 7th of June, 2014. I finished work at 11:00pm, about an hour ago, and I have no real further plans for the evening, so I decided I am going to have some drinks alone in my room, listen to some classical music, and document all the ridiculous s**t my mind may or may not come up with. My current mental state is, more or less, completely intact (I am one drink into my adventure). For the benefit of my patience, I am going to ignore almost mostly all grammar, as life is much too short to worry about such insignificancies. I ran out of ice, which is pretty lame as I hate warm drinks, but this is first world Canada, and I have grown accustomed to a hard life. My dosage consists only of a mickey of Captain Morgan's, which is pretty b***h considering how hard I go. Like, seriously, you should see me go, it would depress the Hell out of you. You would be sitting there, and I would be drinking half-and-half after half-and-half, and you would be all like, "I don't understand, why is he getting so pissed-drunk in this kindergarten class? I doubt he even goes here, seeing as he's twenty-two!" and I would be like "quiet! I don't tolerate any noise when I drink!", which is why I usually only drink when I'm in space, but I am making an exception for the entertainment of you, so don;t say I never did anything for you.

I decided that paragraphs were one part of grammar that I wouldn't ignore, because stories or journals or essays or prose or newspaper articles that don't use the old, reliable paragraph system creep me out, and they should be shot on site, if such a thing is possible. The start of a new paragraph is like the beginning of a new breath: refreshing. I don't trust people who don't breath, because chances are they're dead. You know who else is dead? Hitler. A whole nation trusted him and look where that got them? Virtually. F*****g. Annihilated. That, as well as zombie movies, is why I don't trust dead people, and why I chose to use paragraphs in this hopeless and pointless blurb.

Symphony no. 9. The old Ludwig Van! Alex would be proud. All I need is a trip to the moloko plus to sharpen me up for a little of the old ultra-violence. But I'm not in the mood for drug laced milk, nor am I, or have ever been in the mood for any violence. I have never been in a fight in my life and I hope to keep it that way. One profession I never understood was professional fighters of any variety. If you consider it in the most basic of realities, it is (usually) two men who beat whatever thoughts remain out of each other, the winner being the one who still possesses enough thought to stay on two feet. Whatever you're into, I guess.

On to paragraph number four, and what a paragraph it will be! It is a paragraph that will shatter the normalities of the very idea of the dreams of the previous three paragraphs! It is a paragraph that you will be reading with constant upward inflection! Because, my electronic friends, this is a paragraph in which I have decided to use only exclamation points! I don't mean that literally, or the paragraph would just be !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But I will only use them for the endings, like I have been! It is also the end of my third drink! It is also the end of my third drink, and therefore the beginning of my third drink! Reading those last two sentences over, I can't believe how bad I messed them up! What I meant to say was, I'm on my fourth drink! But, alas! What a cost! As I poured my Coca-Cola out, I spilt some on my desk! This paragraph continues to be full of suspense, as I accidentally clicked the back button on my mouse, and thought that I had lost all this important writing! Gah!

I went to a club last weekend. Wouldn't recommend it. This club had three levels, and on the second level it had a perfect view of the first floor dance floor. I sat there, pondering metaphysics and the usual things drunks think about, and realized a certain correlation between mankind and insect kind. When one looks upon a dance floor from a bird's eye view, with the right set of eyes as 'Fear and Loathing' fans may be wont to say, the grinding mass looks like a cluster of disgusting f*****g beetles in a hormone-filled orgy. Tongues are lashing out to be intercepted by other tongues, or maybe butt holes if it's Butt Hole Saturday, guys are popping secret boners, girls are probably not getting wet but they still humour the guys, and on and on.

It then, and again now, and even other times in my life, occurs to me that scale is bullshit. Starting from the smallest point I vaguely know of, and moving upwards, or largewards, or whateverwards, the tiniest atoms interact with each other in orgy like spontaneity to form molecules, and then the molecules interact with each other in orgy like spontaneity to form substances, and often those substances interact with each other to form us and other serious s**t that I DON'T REALLY FEEL LIKE GETTING FURTHER INTO. I didn't mean to yell at you, I just missed the 'A' key. But, back to my point, us humans interact, and we love and hate and fight and f**k and drink and truck (with friends of the road) and deliver our lifestyles to other nations and deliver nations to other lifestyles and fight wars we will never finish and cry for peace we will never achieve and make religions and end religions and all of it means dick all when our world is knocked out by the fist that is another planet or meteor. But when we're gone, the Universe will continue on, and, chances are, given the evidence that we can gather from everything smaller than us, there are things out there on the same comprehensive level as us. And, using our coveted knowledge that took hundreds of thousands of years to gather, we can comfortably say that there are things out there that are above our level of comprehension, meaning the notion that we are the masters of this Universe is as ridiculous as the notion that I should drive right now.

I have to piss.

Pissed.

Good news, everybody, I just broke through the drunk wall. You know, the moment when you realize, hey, this funky tasting liquid s really doing something to me? I can tell because the sides of my mouth don't feel like much when I bite them. Not that I bite them, just if I wanted to then I could really chow down on my inner cheeks. I don't know how much longer I'll feel like writing, so I guess I'll end it here, lest I say something scandalous like the Ashleys from Recess. Anyway, I'm gonna go smoke something and watch a movie, maybe. What an anticlimax. All well, drunk nights always are.

Reviews

[DaughterNature]

Two points:
1) Paragraphs are part of formatting, not grammar.
2) Life is absolutely NOT too short to worry about grammatical and spelling errors. Anyone who professes to be a writer better be damn sure they have a strong command of the language before they begin writing. How can I tell if your writing is any good if I can't understand your run-on sentences, misspelled words, and misplaced possessives? The only time it's acceptable to not hold to convention is if you're doing obviously experimental writing (here I refer to e. e. cummings and 'A Clockwork Orange' and 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn'). If you're not serious about your craft, no one will take you seriously.

[Chris Woestenburg]

Formatting. Right. I appreciate your critical eye, but this was not meant to be taken very critically. It was more of a free write that an actual story. I would say this is very experimental. I only meant to track my thoughts as I got increasingly drunk.

[DaughterNature]

Oh, for sure, stream-of-consciousness is a great way to get thoughts in order, but I always edit my pieces into something I would prefer other people to read before I post them here or otherwise make them public. Stream-of-consciousness, while a great exercise, is not the same as a piece of actual writing.