I Didn’t INTEND to Get Drunk on a Wednesday, Okay?!

There used to be a time when five beers deep on a Wednesday was just a Wednesday. Staring down the barrel of 30, those days are long gone. I don’t necessarily miss them; I’m a much cheaper date these days, but I do miss being able to drop  20-30 beers in a sitting and get up by 8:30 the next morning as some semblance of human. I mean, it was barely human behavior at the time, but I could do it.

So what’s a blog like me doing at a guy like this? Well, I’ve been bumping Chuck Ragan and Chuck Ragan-adjacent music on Spotify for the past hour-plus and that sort of gravely singer-songwriter ish gets my creative juices oozing, so here we are.

Hey, Vin, how’s all that shit you talked about last time going?

Shut your whore mouth, header-writer, and stop judging me. Last time I talked about my 500 Shitty Words plan, and I’m happy to report it made it all the way to 1,000+ shitty words. I burn through willpower like Donald Trump supporters burn through crosses, so part of me knew that I could never keep that pace up, but I didn’t expect to burn out (puns!) so quickly. Though me finishing before I want to is something I’m used to (innuendos!).

In truth though, I’ve been putting a decent amount of work into my primary writing project. That project is a fantasy world which serves a dual purpose as the setting for a series of stories I want/intend to write and as a setting for a Dungeons & Dragons campaign.

I’ve been playing D&D for less than two years, but I’m hooked on it. I can’t seem to get a hold of a steady game, but I’ve found I have a few friends that at least have a passing interest in it, so my “worst case scenario” is that I have to drop behind the screen and be the Dungeon Master instead of hitting imaginary shit with my imaginary axe.

It’s not ideal, but since I’ve got a lady-friend who actually wants to spend time with me, that whole homebrewing thing, a need to be violent, and a super-derpy dog, it’s about as good as I can muster without quitting that job that pays my bills.

Super-derpy dog
Super-derpy dog

Unequivocal but Non-Typical

I wonder, sometimes, how long I’m gonna be the guy that’s up drinking until 2am on a Wednesday, while also being the guy who corrects that sentence from “the guy that’s up until 2am drinking” because it’s structurally better. I feel like a lot of my behavior is contingent on external influences. I’ve got a good woman, but she don’t live here. So while the cat’s away, the mice will have too much to drink on a weeknight.

That’s not really fair (my girl isn’t a teetotaler by any stretch). I try not to mix too much thinking with my drinking because they both cloud the other. I got some friends – acquaintances, really, but I like ’em – that are in recovery. For some reason that’s harder for me to grasp than my friends/acquaintances that are going through divorces or on their second marriages.

It’s funny, as someone who considers himself a natural fuck-up, I admire these people more than most folks I know. They risked something. For those with failed marriages – hey, IIWII* – they risked a bit of money and a butt-ton of emotion on someone that ended up being a bust for one reason or another. As I’ve learned from gambling, there’s a lot of ways to not make 21. But the people that fought back their addictions, man, that’s some shit. With a bad marriage, you can point externally, but with addiction it’s in you. I guess that gives you a leg up on fixing shit, since you’re – theoretically – autonomous, but that’s a lot of weight on the shoulders.

Describe the pieces to me

Sorry, getting rambly. I think a lot about addiction, specifically alcoholism, when I’m deep in the cups. It’s a bit weird (maybe hypocritical) to read through the archives of revenants with a pint in hand. Prep work? Nah, I don’t think so. I’ve mentally tied alcohol to weight gain, and I think my narcissism will probably protect me. Neat trick, eh? Turn a flaw against a vice. Stick with me, kid, I’ll teach you how to fuck it all up.

I like teasing at the edge. I got vertigo; I’ll never step out on the ledge, but I like getting as close as I can. Peering over the edge, feeling the imminence of death, the immediacy of mortality. It’s weird. A fall from here: certain death. Point this gun the wrong way: it’s over. Now, head back to your desk and pump out a couple dozen spreadsheets, chief.

Something May Catch Fire

I’m pretty damn sure, I’m not the first to let his brainwaves cruise down this current, but I feel like no one is talking about it. Let’s be honest, Donald and Hillary are boring. Politicians – at a national level – are inherently corrupt liars, so is it really a surprise the world’s best liar is up against the world’s most corrupt power broker? Nah, not really. Each side’s predicting doomsday, but it’ll probably be status quo either way. That sort of grand cataclysm is best left for bibles and bullshit. You’re more likely to die in the car, but you get in that sumbitch every day to drive to work. Ain’t that a bitch?

Yeah, this is getting really rambly. Let’s call it a night on writing, kids.

*It Is What It Is

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