She lives and works from her laptop on a little paradise island in the Philippines. She's a writer, graphic artist, and mountaineer. During rainy days she loves to sleep and oversleep and dream and daydream and then write. More »
+ Anaïs Walsdorf
+ Andy Macalino
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A book is itching to spill out my fingers. I dreamt of it, literally, one or two years ago. The dream just keeps on snapping back to my head. It wouldn't go away. It's too disturbing it drives me loco I have to write it down.
The dude behind that paper, he's my protagonist. Finch, this is the very reason why I met you. To plagiarize your identity and put you in a book in another dimension.:p
My sister says I smell like dad, which is a bad thing, because dad used to stink of alcohol all the time. People would clamp their noses shut with clothespin whenever he was nearby. You wouldn't even have to see or hear him to know he's there. The stench of the air was bleeding with his presence that it was necessary that we wear gas masks. My mom wore a gas mask every time she slept with dad. In the house we all wore this gas mask like a black baby octopus sucking our face. (I assume my readers are intelligent enough to figure this out a satire.)
I don't want to end up like him. He killed himself, committed suicide rather, through liquor. He consumed liquor everyday. He bathed with it, gargled with it, washed his face with it, washed his ass with it. He was crazy, a womanizer, an alcoholic, a gambler, an idler. Very much like Bender. He also had paroxysms of schizophrenia.
I need to stop drinking before I turn into my father's clone.
This morning I felt like vomiting in Comicbook Writing class--yes, I have such a class.:p I said out loud, "I wanna vomit." Only to find someone hear it. He went like, "Why? What's the problem?" Then I said I drank one whole bottle of longneck last night. Then someone else piped in, "What's a longneck?"
These kids, they don't know what a longneck is. A longneck is a giraffe. Isang 700ml na bote ng Gran Matador Brandy na may konsentrasyong 32.5% alcohol.
Once you pop you can't stop. I sucked the bottle dry all by me lonesome.
Now I think I should skedaddle away from booze just like how I did with cigarettes.
PLUG: SMOKING IS NOT COOL! DRINKING IS NOT COOL! I REST MY CASE! WHY AM I SCREAMING!
The only problem is that liquor has been the tentacle that gripped my life since I was thirteen. All my mental and physical grotesqueness was the brainchild of liquor. I met all my friends and lovers through binges. I don't have any lover or close friend who isn't a sponge soaked with liquor. In preclimbs we drink. Up the mountain we drink. Postclimbs we drink. Hanging around we drink. Alcohol represents all the people and strangers I met and loved in all that ten years of drinking. I've gotten so dependent on it that quitting cold turkey would be like blocking my nasal cavities with cottonballs. Alcohol is life, which is a stupid thing to say.
The whole Atheistmas Holidays was spent on tippling booze. Now that school's back I feel like shit. I am sedated, bored, and frazzled. I am so tired of school, so tired of work, so tired of reading and critiquing and writing academic papers and going to class day after day after day after day for the past eighteen years.
I want to do what I want: I want to write that book.
Only problem is, writing and alcohol, they blend so well like yin and yang and black and white and day and night that splitting them apart will kill them both.
Word Up
Dana10.01.10 - 04:03