Have you noticed how when you are drunk you don’t say your words so much as you splay it? That’s right- you splay it. They come out like paint slopped lazily on canvas without any forethought or intent. Just a loose string of syllables let out into the air with a faint hope that they resemble something discernably coherent to the human mind. Animals will understand. They understand a lot more than we ever will. Ooh! There’s a giggle. And now here’s my vacant pause. —. She’s still smiling expectantly-what was it that I was saying? Oh yeah- Stephanie Meyer and the Mystery of the Incoherent Splayer.
There she was, just sitting there minding herself when someone decided to launch upon her a most vitriolic attack. TWITTER. Ugh! It follows you everywhere. Scrunched up sentences become tweets so that the masses may believe. Horror of horrors. How does one dare be so odiously articulate in this day and age? If there is no tweet about that, I must chatter about it a while.
Hm. That’s a glass. And its mine. Also empty. Precious. Bring me that pint. Actually, make that a pitcher. No man can be too macho to say no to a screwdriver and some more. Beer is for the whore. For the philanderer who is already too spent for anything else. Bells. Do you hear them too? I sure do. Who the devil be ringing bells this time of the night? Waiter! That’s a nice drink you’re holding. What time is it? Closing time you say? That’s a bummer. I must leave then- if the streets will have me. Country roads! Oh dear me. I must behave…
_V. 09th April, 2021
Righting Writing 