Last night was a trainwreck.
I have to be honest. I don’t do well with red wine. Give me a bottle or three of white and I’m dancing the night away. A shared bottle of Malbec and I’m all ‘Girl on the Train’ which is what went down last night. I believe the internet kept me honest for that one. It revealed what I can be like at my worst. It is rather bad I’m afraid, but I am also pleased to know that in discovering the bottom you become aware of what it looks like to surface and climb, ever so slowly, towards a good place.
Even the dreams went badly. There was the one with the wedding in Harlem, the one with the Dragon, even something about a crime scene inspired by all of the less-than-great TV I’ve been watching lately. When I woke the first time (sometime around 1 AM) I pledged to not put myself in that position again. This too is a good sign. I will blog under better conditions, avoiding the red haze of alcohol and sleep deprivation.
On the other hand, I’m really a writer now.
I’ve heard tell that most of the great writers found their way to the bottom of a bottle at some point. Stephen King had to go sober. Raymond Carver, Hemingway, Tennesee Williams, hell even Fitzgerald lived at the bottom of a drink. It was manly. It was power-inducing and acceptable behavior. The man with a drink was an iconic sign. The man with a drink and a pen was legendary.
This is no longer the case and no longer a real excuse, especially considering that I was not considering any of those dudes as I poured another glass. I was thinking, ‘This tastes fantastic.’ Well, it didn’t make me write fantastic, dear reader.
You deserve better than that.