One Out of Two

I don’t think I really like drinking.

I do it enough that I should know by now whether I enjoy it or not. I mean, I know I prefer gin over tequila and rum above all else, but I still don’t particularly enjoy the burn as it goes down. Once it’s down though, it’s all the same. I’ll pour a few fingers worth of whiskey and gulp it down straight just to pretend I’m tough and can appreciate a stiff drink, even when I’m alone in my apartment. Isn’t that what writers do? If it helps me reach my creative headspace, then what’s a little alcohol poisoning?

Waking up with a headache and only a handful of sentences to show for it is a routine I’ve become all too accustomed to. I like to think that I like at least one of the things in this routine, either the drinking or the writing. I do one to fuel the other, but it turns out it’s a lot easier to be successful at pouring yourself drinks than filling up a Word document. It also turns out that I’m a lot more scared of an empty bottle than an empty page. I don’t know when this started, but changing at this point seems like more trouble than it’s worth. If I’m required to edit sober, I’ll get there when I actually have something to edit.