Last week I went out to see a movie with a friend. It was pretty heavy going, so to lift our spirits we decided to hit some bars after the credits had rolled. A few hours later I’d long since missed the last tram home and somewhere in a haze of strange concoctions I’d had this moment of literary inspiration.
It’s a bad habit I have, sending text messages while enjoying the swirl of a moment of intoxication. To be fair, such moments are not common for me. I rarely drink to excess, and in truth I rarely drink at all. I am a cheap drunk. After three beers, four at a push, I’m ready to dance, laugh at crap jokes, and eat greasy food from establishments of questionable health standards.
But what was I trying to say in the text I sent to my friend Theresa. I do remember sending it, but like all texts I never bothered to read it back when I awoke the next morning.
“Wetl are the drunk duckstes in the jourd ule sky.
Lol. Dity would glee
Fuck the sky for money.”
I’ve looked at my ageing phone with its number pad smoothed down like a bannister from an old staircase in a building with outrageously high ceilings. The assistance of predictive text was clearly powerless to assist me at nearly 2am while I enjoyed the intoxicating embrace of another cocktail from the Black Pearl on Brunswick Street in Fitzroy.
Wetl are the drunk duckstes in the jourd ule sky. What? The jourd ule sky?
And that last line. “Fuck the sky for money.” Did I really mean to write that, or was predictive text attempting to fathom the notions of a somewhat sozzled Englishman?
I’ve heard it said that some artists enjoy their most brilliant and creative moments in the haze of an intoxicated binge. But it seems clear to me that the same oil that loosed the genius in some has revealed that there is sadly no genius or wonder in my pixilated soul.
I’ll try to refrain from reaching for my phone the next time I’m making that transition from my second drink to drunkard. But I’m making no promises. After all, lest we forget wetl are the drunk duckstes.
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