Oh, no, woman, I ain’t drunk… unk… hush, baby, le… let’s have another nip.
There is this terrible beast. It stays up late at night and drinks rum. Tsk, tsk. It writes silly stuff. Sometimes it writes funny stuff, or cynical stuff. Occasionally it writes pathetic stuff. Once in a great while it writes good stuff (well, that is what it flatters itself). It knows better, but it drinks rum anyway. If it would just stick to wine, things would be better, but, well, it doesn’t. It wouldn’t be a beast if it did what was good for it, would it now?
Listening to Battle March Medley from the Pogues, by the by.
A very, very bad combination. Normally, you drink in order not to think. But when you drink and start to think… well. That’s the moment when you know something has gone horribly wrong. The moment when you realize you have drunk too little, or perhaps not enough… or maybe you just didn’t drink fast enough? In any case, you’ve somehow missed the point. The point of no return? No, that’s not what I meant… uhhh; no. The decisive moment? No, it’s not that either. The point. You missed the point. You know what I mean, don’t you? Christ. As always, the answer is not at the bottom of the glass. How often are you going to try this until you give up? It’s the third bottle, every damned time. That’s when you start thinking again, and it’s no good.
Just now a tractor drove past, in the middle of fucking town, in the middle of the fucking night, b’god. What the hell is going on here? Listening to Running from Milky Chance. Trying my very best to stop thinking.
If you are a persevering reader you may have noticed that I rink. Uhh… drink. You might even think, he drink a might too much: butch: the fact is, I don’t drink nearly enough.
I do not drink enough to destroy my life. I do not drink enough to erase the memory of deeds done. I do not drink enough to quench my thirst, I do not drink enough to make me spell bad even when I have an injured finger. Any bad spelling you may find has been spelled bad in the heat of the moment of typing and not corrected because it is supposed to be that way. Do you think I drink so much that I do not correct my own work? I do not drink enough to make me stop thinking… alright, I admit it, I can, when necessary, when put up to it, when there is no choice, drink enough to make me stop thinking. Exceptions to the rule, and so on. I do not drink enough to make me stop drinking.
The point is… aha. You’ve got me there. Apparently I have drunk enough after all. So, and now, at last, I come to the question: is that a problem? Must there be a point? Must I know what the hell I am doing? Must I know what I am talking about? Must I even know what I am thinking? Do we have a problem here?
I got no problem. You, reader…! You gotta problem? You tryin’ to fuck aroun’ with me here? You… you wanna see the scars on my knuckles up close, motherfucker?!
I thought not. So c’mon, Let’s go to the corner bar in your brain and have some schnapps. Buy me a drink or two and we’ll talk about the old times we’ve never had, or about God, and the world… or whatever. Because, for those of you who haven’t noticed in spite of the clues I’ve given, it is time I let the cat out of the sack: I am fictional. I am a figment of some crazy author’s overheated imagination. So the only place I get to drink is in people’s thoughts: Mr. Hellstrøm, the virtual barfly.
Perhaps you have an unused room somewhere in that big old brain of yours, with nothing in it except a desk, a chair, a bottle of rum, and an old-fashioned typewriter. Maybe there is a picture on the wall, with dust clinging to the frame, but that is irrelevant. If you would be so kind as to lead me there, once we’ve finished our drinks (just one more, a double, if you please), I could write something for you. Don’t mind the noise of the typewriter, you’ll get used to it. Chapter two