I'm not a big fan of booze. It's just not my thing. It seems to be gaff in the face of all that is considered holy by my interpretation of my generation (pop culture, drinking and bragging about sex you probably didn't have), but, it's just not what I do. Still, I partake in it from time to time. It's not for social acceptance as a lot of my generational counterparts would liken it to. It's more for...understanding. If that scapegoat concept can be applied, I'll take it, I'm too lazy to come up with a better premise.
Drinking to me is a vacation, not an escape. It's amusing for a while then, ends in a headache, throwing up and unwanted "dumpster baby" style pregnancies. Though, for many, I assume by the many dramas/after school specials/televised guilt trips I've waded through while waiting for better shows to come on, alcohol is an escape.
Well, tonight or actually, early morning, I am taking a sojourn into the wild world of solitary...sadness drinking. It seems fitting as I am alone and have cascaded head long into a depression of hope stripping joblessness and body odor. This seems to be the perfect visage, internet wise, to voice my drunken self. Yet, it wouldn't feel right to not have a purpose for writing. Indeed, it feels like taking a dump and not wiping. I am not a non-ass wiper, so, I give you...
And sometimes, it's just an excuse to sit on a friends face.
Well, tonight or actually, early morning, I am taking a sojourn into the wild world of solitary...sadness drinking. It seems fitting as I am alone and have cascaded head long into a depression of hope stripping joblessness and body odor. This seems to be the perfect visage, internet wise, to voice my drunken self. Yet, it wouldn't feel right to not have a purpose for writing. Indeed, it feels like taking a dump and not wiping. I am not a non-ass wiper, so, I give you...
3 Drunken Authors I Admire
by
(drunken) Elton Edgar
Edgar Allan Poe
(of course)
What list of drunken literary greats WOULDN'T start with Poe? Not this shit-faced one, let me tell you. The guy was a genius, dejected by his own borderline retardation, he was made to suffer alcoholism until he kicked the bucket. Why? Because...he was a stupid ass who sabotaged his own success.
A few examples include: printing his own work, then, instead of handing them out to potential publishers, he gave them to his friends and family or when he was vying for a government job, which would have given him time to write more, he tried to sell the President of the United States some magazine subscriptions. Drinking for Poe was a pleasing substitute for failure which made him the depressing, goth, punk author-god he is today.
[notable contribution to humanity: "The Raven" a great poem and probably terrifying in the days when people believed animals could talk.]
A few examples include: printing his own work, then, instead of handing them out to potential publishers, he gave them to his friends and family or when he was vying for a government job, which would have given him time to write more, he tried to sell the President of the United States some magazine subscriptions. Drinking for Poe was a pleasing substitute for failure which made him the depressing, goth, punk author-god he is today.
[notable contribution to humanity: "The Raven" a great poem and probably terrifying in the days when people believed animals could talk.]
Hunter S. Thompson
(cheese fuckers.)
Everything I learned about Hunter S. Thompson, I learned from Bill Murray and Johnny Depp. Okay, that's not entirely true. I've read quite a bit of Mr. Thompson's work. It's very, very good in a rambling, prose-ish a little over half drunk kind of way. It's runs smooth, like a babbling brook...after it's been polluted by a tobacco factory, distillery and lost mescaline shipment.
For about a year out of my rather drab, inconsequential existence, I had a love affair with Hunter S. Thompson. Not...the guy, mind you, but, his writing. Besides, he hung out with Johnny Depp, so, if he was going to gay out with anyone it would have been him, I wouldn't have even made the list. Despite being straight, I'm still kind of sad with that realization.
[notable contribution to humanity: " Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream"-a drug induced haze involving self indulgence, a lawyer and in a stunning twist, Las Vegas.]
Ernest Hemingway
(cock puncher)
Never has a dead man intrigued and frightened me as much as Ernest Hemingway. This guy breathed fire, shit nails and used those nails in inexplicable ways to pleasure women. He, by most accounts, could knuckle punch a bull, in it's face THEN have sex with it to show his superiority. His writing is nothing short of genius. Simplicity is key to it's execution as well as a healthy swath of "fuck you". When I started writing, in a serious attempt at writing, I would try to emulate him. I sucked at it. I've read a lot of Hemingway and nothing I have or ever will write comes close.
As a consolation to myself and my dismal failures at Hemingway-esque greatness, I have instead resigned myself to fighting animals and drinking my way toward a more substantial manhood. I'm only halfway there. Not by my own fault, mind you, it's just that bunnies won't sit still long enough to be punched. Fucking bunnies.
[notable contribution to humanity: "A Farewell To Arms", which, oddly and disappointingly enough has very little to do with amputation.]
