I cannot write when I'm drunk.

This is one of the saddest discoveries I've made lately.

I never tried writing when I was drunk before, because usually the drunkness happened in a bar with people, and even afterwards, when I came home, it would involve falling into bed, or staying up talking with a friend. I have rarely been drunk alone.

The past month though, I have drunk alone a few times. And no, I can just picture all you smarmy people raising an eyebrow and shaking your head at my degenerate life, or worse, being like Pill who, the other day, sent me a text saying, "You look depressed in your latest photos." The reason I have drunk alone is sometimes you come back from a stressful day at work, and I live alone with no roommate, and you're kind of like, oh, let me have a drink and relax. It's that sort of alone-drinking. I don't even know why I am explaining this on my blog, and feeling guilty at the same time. It's ridiculous. I won't.

The point is, on Saturday, I didn't really feel like meeting people. I felt like staying in, I felt like a quiet sort of night. And then it occurred to me that I'd never tried writing while drunk before. And then I was fired up with this image of me finally being able to write, really write, and for it to be writing slightly different from my sober writing. More inspired, perhaps. Less banal.

So I got myself a bottle of rum (big mistake, will come to that later) and I found a huge bottle of coke in the fridge. I had no clue where the coke had come from because I don't usually drink coke. But I put it down to one of those inexplicable life occurrences. Anyway, I poured half the coke out, poured all the rum in, went to my room, locked the door, and set about getting drunk.

Ok, I know this sounds bad, and it makes me look like an alcoholic if you're the judgmental type, but I was doing this for a specific reason. It was an experiment. A creative experiment to discover, test and manipulate my boundaries and capabilities. So there.

Anyway, I got drunk after a while, and then Hrishikesh called. (Hrishikesh and I once had a long, involved conversation about what nickname I could give him on this blog. He suggested God, I suggested Scrappy Doo, an impasse was reached. But now I know he will be known as Hrishikesh even though I call him Hrishi in real life.) I was in the middle of having a long and serious discussion with him about something incredibly stupid, when there was a knock on my bedroom door.

It was Kusum, my aunt's Girl Friday, whom I thought had departed for the night. I opened the door and we both looked at each other suspiciously.

"You've taken the coke," she said.

"Yes," I said, at that moment realising how the coke had got in the fridge and cursing myself.

"My husband would like a glass,"

Oh man. I considered giving him the coke, spiked as it was with huge quantities of rum, but I didn't think I should do that. So I had to explain to her how I hadn't realised it was Shiv Shankar's coke, I thought it was my own coke, bought and forgotten about, and now I'd poured alcohol into it, and I didn't think Shiv Shankar would appreciate the alcohol. (Actually I did have a feeling he'd appreciate it, but I didn't want to share.)

It was so embarrassing, and Hrishikesh could hear every word of this goddamn conversation, and he was laughing his head off at the other end of the line. I finally gave Kusum some money, and my apologies, and told her to give it to Shiv Shankar so he could replace his coke.

And then after I was done talking to Hrishikesh, and had drunk enough to slightly numb the incident that occurred with Kusum, I sat down to write.

And I discovered that I cannot bloody write when I'm drunk. I can't form a proper sentence. My language becomes stiff and convoluted, I use way too many commas (which I know I do when I'm sober and I'm working on it) and the next morning, I couldn't understand what the fuck I'd been trying to write about. I lose what twisted sense of humour I have, and everything just turns out bad, and worse than bad, pretentious.

Oh yes. And I'd forgotten that I cannot drink rum, and also that I slightly hate it, and I had an upset tummy for the next two days.

It was all very tragic, and to make matters worse, the next morning, as I dragged myself into the kitchen, Kusum said, "Even Shiv Shankar drinks alcohol."

"Good, good." I said, trying to look unashamed and unconcerned. "Alcohol is nice."

"I don't like it," said Kusum sweetly, "I've tried it once, but I felt funny."

I smiled dutifully.

"But Shiv Shankar likes it," she repeated.

Excellent, excellent.

"But," she said, still very sweetly, "he never drinks alone."


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

always always always puts a smile on my face :)