Don’t you know there ain’t no devil, it’s just god when he’s drunk. -Tom Waits
A few nights ago I scribbled away on a piece of scratch paper my irrational thoughts of what I assumed to be a masterpiece. I sat there laughing to myself in a drunken stupor, I wrote as if I held the secrets to life. I have heard people blame alcohol for their mistakes, their misfortune… But on this particular night, I felt as if the intoxication gave me clarity. I wrote several times, “it’s like trying to fit a square into a circle.” Over and over again I wrote this down. I may have gone a little mad, but the conclusion I came to in the morning was this: Drunk blogging is a bad idea. Why?
Because it is too RAW. It’s too real, one must never see you raw. Uninhibited without the glory of your perfected mirage. A sober individual has all of the necessary tools to chisel away their imperfections. They can mask their heart’s gravitational pull. And most could argue the beauty of being pure; emotionally naked. I believe we are adverse to the havoc alcohol reaps because we are not accepted by those we instill our heart’s desire.
When you’re spinning out of control, the music isn’t just heard, it is felt. Every lyric, every beat. You are in the moment, tomorrow is not relevant to the drunk. It is the right now, the right this second. I wish to live that way.
We drink to celebrate, to party, to let go. We drink at weddings, funerals, networking events, and occasionally uncork in a nice hot bath. What is shameful is the pompous asshole who dismisses your “under the influence” exchange. The shmuck who does not take you seriously when you unveil the truth. Personally, I have never regretted what I’ve said when drunk, what pissed me off was the response it allocated back. There is nothing worse than being taken as a joke when you are vulnerable. Or to not receive the answers your raw heart craves to hear. This is where the mishap takes place. Once the drunk has been rejected, the fangs and claws follow suit. And this is where the truth turns to lies. The anger consumes the raw heart and sets it on fire. The message is no longer projected with the initial intent it once carried.
Its like trying to fit a square into a circle. The sober holds his square posture, while the drunk tries to mesh with his circular sincerity. It is a fucked up dance that is unable to flow. Look, I am not addicted to the whiskey, I am drawn to the clarity of my intoxicated thoughts. I am infatuated with the courage it bestows on my psyche. The words I soberly deter from are accentuated with Jameson.