on writing and drinking

a drowsy pair of eyes with a hyperactive imagination won't make me go to bed. worse, it feels like i'm on a transient space between sober and slumber with a tummy full of beer and a mind full of tomfooleries.

i wasn't like this. it might be the nicotine in my veins or probably the caffeine in my brain...

normally, i'd play online poker to the wee hours then couch on my bed and spare enough time to read a chapter or two of a book i was reading. but now, with this apparent insomnia,  i feel like i want to be a jerk in the poker room, drink my coffee bitter than stainless steel and smoke a cigarette which is not even my brand (and so i curse the menthol and the freaking closed nearby store and wonder why i didn't think about buying a pack at 7-11 awhile ago. i was not that stupid either but, hell, my bladder betrayed me so i had to rush because, as stupid that i am (just for tonight i hope) i didn't consider relieving myself from pathetic, pink urinals and depressing, uninhabited fast-food chains' cans on my way home.

anyway, enough of the crap... i neither want to write about anything anyway nor this is another catcher in the rye kind of story. i just feel like writing and ostensibly, with a tiny spark of hope that doing such will somehow help me forget about the book i had finished writing and for the seemingly another book i have to begin writing on account of my zippy brain sadistically maneuvering my hands to type for the meantime. i don't care about typing the story, the ideas will flow over anyway... it is the stupid protagonist's brain which i have to get into and the other characters i have to immerse with and if you only know what helluva brain they have, you'd understand why i almost forgot that i am sane, that i am human, and to tell you the truth, i almost forgot that i am alive.

just now, i am losing the game from a stupid, conceited son of a b*tch in the poker room and with an empty cup of coffee and my final stick of menthol (which still makes me wish that there's a fairy godmother or a genie around so i could ask for a stick of non-menthol filter), i better start logging off and get back to my wife waiting on the bed... her name is "the master and margarita" (yeah right, my wife is a book and she's not the only one... there are shelves of them and they are all my wives... the real world is my mistress.)

forget about the title. hopefully i'm gonna tell something about it some other day because my cerebellum is already betraying my senses and putting me on the verge of having epistaxis.


to my editor, pardon me for the typo, grammatical and sentence fragment errors, blame it on the alcohol.
to the jerk in the poker room, well, the room is yours, take my phony money and brag about your f****t-jewish a*s to those pathetic-looking posers.
to my last stick of cigarette, i hate to say this but, "despite your menthol taste, you blew me away."
to the empty cup where i took orgasmic sips of organic coffee, you can now compare your life to me for we are now both empty.
to my blood streaming through my veins, have more patience before you burst out through my nose and make a damn cliched metaphor turn into a literal running joke.

there is no winning in whining so i better shut the f*ck up and end this rigmarole.