Look at all these people—sober. Doing things; researching, studying, UGH. God. I quit the green two weeks ago and I haven’t mustered out a sentence since. I barely drink, so my days of calling on the spirit of Buk or Jackie K or poppin’ bottles to the spirit of Hunter’re gone. Son of a bitch, I’m actually feeling happy now, too. Are you kidding me? Is this life now? Happiness wrapped up in events I can remember, calling it a night and tucking myself in without a nightcap, thinking “today was a good day!” Falling asleep without the haze that comes with bloodshot eyes and two hours of watching cartoons on Netflix?
The first week of sobriety was awful, just awful. In 7 days, I probably slept something like 7 hours. I’d convinced myself I needed a smoke to sleep for so long (4 years) that I willed it into existence. When I finally found sleep—and that sweet, sweet REM, my brain conga-danced nightmares so vivid that I preferred punching my bed in insomnia-induced anger.
But now I have to figure this out. No more sunglasses in the daytime—never really used them until I needed to cover up evidence. No more one-hitters before ordering a medium iced coffee (I’m that asshole who won’t say ‘grande’), disappearing behind earplugs and plugging away in my zone. One thing I’ve found: writing sober is hard. How do you people do it? It feels like the stories only came when loosely wrapped in hemp paper—too tight and the pulls are hard (FYI). Maybe, in the case of the Skinny stories, it’s a matter of the mid-story slump. In the others, maybe I’m trying to figure out a voice distinct from the clutter I’ve written. I mean, I’ll be honest here—there’s A LOT of stories on this blog but I’d recommend reading 5, at most. The others, well, let’s just say you can tell I was in a different state of mind while writing them. Write drunk (stoned) / Edit sober. Na, it made me lazy. My mantra was “write stoned / fuck it”; it’ll be just as good as sober writes. To blatantly shoehorn some culture into this crockpot, Das ist mir doch alles wurscht—it’s all the same to me.
So please pardon the lack of updates except the admission that I was sexually harassed by an 85 year old man at a former workplace. I need to figure out the writing again. To be honest, I’ve been writing so much at work lately that I really need to take the time to sit down and write for myself before everything gets all shitted up. Yada yada yada. You don’t care about this, and you shouldn’t.
The next few stories I’m running through my mind will hopefully be a lot better than what was. I may even begin a new blog and call this one “The Cutting Room”. I think, by now, I’ve at least convinced myself that I’m serious about writing, the process, and the outcome. Now…now…sigh…I just need to do it sober. From here on out. No more. None. Get behind me, Satan! Unless you got, then pass that shit—cause I’m fast running out of ideas.
Have a good one.
-A.B. Writes Stares at a Blank Screen for a Few Hours Before Calling it a Day