It is decided – I am becoming a drunk!
Effective immediately; two cocktails at lunch I just had, are to count as my initiation.
Originally, since the ambiguous age of self-awareness till about two hours ago, I coveted one day becoming a writer.
Writers have always been magical. They created worlds I could escape to and live thousands of full lives. All while my teen-age, always ready to sweat body was laying in a strategic spot on the parquet floor close enough to the open balcony door for the summer breeze to stream over my skin, but far enough so it could not reach me with the tulle curtain.
Writers were genius. Their words, written miles and centuries away, were so real and present, they hugged my turbulent soul, and I never felt alone. And so I dreamt of becoming one too.
It has been a marvelous dream for it didn’t require I do anything — now or tomorrow. You see, writing is a gift, a talent; it isn’t something you train for, like a sport for instance. One day —someday— you just have written a book.
I have now been repeatedly told by my rude friends that one has to actually write in order to may be, someday, become a writer. But writers are geniuses, and therefore only geniuses are qualified to write. And who in their right mind would think themselves a genius?!
So, today I am giving up on my dream of becoming a writer and instead commit to becoming a drunk —an out of my right mind drunk, and write.