Sunday, August 3, 2014

Writing Under the Influence

One of my exes (or whatever) told me she writes better when she’s having alcoholic drinks, or while she’s smoking a joint.
            “Parts of my brain that I do not normally use get triggered “creativity,” is induced :)” She texted. Yes, the smiley face is hers.
            There was something about norco pills. Oh yes! She had popped a norco pill, because it was a Friday night, she had ordered a pizza, and was drinking soda, which she hadn’t drank in a looong time, according to her; and she was texting me because she was bored. And like the dumbfuck I was, I was texting back with her between 1am and 2am. Anyhow this whole thing about writing under the influence, she asked me if I’d done it. My response was, “no, if I try to write while drinking, I usually drink until I knockout. If I write while smoking, I just stop writing.” This has been my experience with writing under the influence. In my lit courses I heard about many a now posthumously famous authors who wrote under the influence. Now this girl from a past life was hoping to be among the posthumously famous authors who got high or inebriated as they wrote or before they wrote.
            I remember I had a conversation with a friend in college that went along the same lines. He told me he tried writing a couple of his essays while drinking or after toking, because he bought into the romanticism of more famous and better authors than him who wrote master-fucken-pieces under the influence. But I doubt any profe at a university would take the pinche time to actually read an undergrad student’s essay and find the master-fucken-piece within it. Skimming is the name of the game. Anyhow, said friend, said, that while drinking or smoking the tweeds, he just wants to keep getting fucked up. The same applies to me.
            Anyhow, my I-don’t- know-what (we dated a couple of times, so she wasn’t my girlfriend, so she can’t be my ex. More like a girl I dated, we never fucked, but for some odd reason we keep in touch once or twice a year, even though she’s back with her boyfriend who did about 12 years in prison. If you’re first thought is "you’re a grandiose pendejo," you are correct my friend!) Anyhow, the writing under the influence. I made some wiseass, lame remark about the norco pill she told me she had popped. I should be flogged for it. It was horrible. Anyway, her textual response: “Ooh nooo norco actually blocks neurons in my brain. Marijuana is what helps my creativity and memory.” I don’t know if she actually knows what the fuck she was talking about. But she called me a chickenshit for not writing under the influence like her. This is after I explained how I am a horrible binger and won’t get any writing done.
            So that was last night. Today I helped a friend but together a treadmill. Yes! A fucking treadmill! Then we had dinner. Followed by a couple of drinks at an Irish Pub. I had some kinda vanilla stout, followed by something called a Short’s Cinnabilly. The Vanilla Stout was waaaay better. As my friend drove me back home, I got a bright idea. “You know what, I’m going to prove to My Whatever, you can’t write successfully under the influence!” So I told my friend to pull over at the shitty Midwestern substitute for a 7/11. She asked why? I said because I want to prove to My Whatever that you can’t write under the fucking influence. I believe that by this point, the alcohol was talking.
            Indeed, I’m on my fourth Guiness draught. The bottled stuff. When I pursued this endeavor I was thinking, how hard could it be? I saw Hunter S. Thompson do it in this documentary just recently. I have to admit, like I did to My Whatever, I always had respect for writers/authors who could write under the influence, that was always one of my aspirations as a mocoso. But now I have a newfound respect for writers who can write under the influence. I think my first mistake was trying to write under the influence, even though I took my time drinking my beer, not pounding it like an undergrad student.
            Maybe if I would have smoked a joint this would have been a different experience, but I’m not an avid pot smoker, and thus do not have an avid drug dealer. The pot would probably go well with the Wiz Khalifa I’m about to listen to. Currently listienng to Lets Get Lucky, but those Daft Punk guys. Me? Not getting lucky. I just like the beat. Makes me wonder what My Whatever actually drinks when and if she writes. Probably fruity tasting red wine. Or maybe some expensive brandy. Can’t see her downing shots of tequila unless its in margaritas, which she probably wouldn’t make for herself.  Did I prove her wrong though? I think I did. I’m currently on my 5th Guinness. But I’m also chomping on tortilla chips that I’m dipping in homemade tomatillo and aguacate salsa. Good as fuck.

            I had also told my friend that this evening for me was akin to a phrase like “I don’t give a fuck.” I don’t know why I threw that in there, but I’m pretty sure it’s an allegory for something.

Editor's note: Yes I did take the the time to revise this . . . while under the influence.¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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