drunk creativity

They say drunkenness is the cure for love, that the medication of inebriation will dissolve those feelings, dilute them until they’re barely noticeable.

They say, have a drink, have more, drink enough and your love will sink to the bottom of the bottle and drown, this is the cure.

So now I’m drunk. And it’s all…bullshit.

Getting drunk doesn’t erase you, doesn’t stop me from loving you, or stop the hurt from happening. It just hardens the hole in my gut. I love you, but I don’t care that I love you. But God, I fucking love you.

My heart is not a tap you can turn on and off.

It’s so fucking crazy to me that people say we choose who we love and how we love them and when and whether.

As if I can just give myself a stern talking to, sit myself down and say, “Stop feeling so fucking sad every time you think about the unending impossibility, and the universe’s trend toward entropy, and how the two of you were brought together only so it could tear you apart.”

And that would fix it, knit me back together, willpower and grit and good old-fashioned self-medication.

I’m drunk and dumb and I hate myself.

Because every time I fall in love, I never have any goddamn choice.

—  Drunk

I’m a sucker for euphoria though, for those screenshot moments when you run out into the rain, or scream into a storm, or walk along the beach under moonlight and stay up to watch the sunrise. Or falling in love on warm summer nights and getting drunk enough to tell your friends how much you truly care about them. Those beautiful and unique explosions of everything that is life, the reminder that we all live in constant present - that everything is all far too short to rush.

and here is my heart, 
you can have it if you want,
i promise it is yours. 
i will welcome your demons
with a kiss and if i could sing 
away your sadness with the 
softest of lullabies, i would. 
here is my heart, you can take 
it and do what you will, 
but you should know that if
i could mend the darkness
that sits in your throat,
heavy and endless, 
i would take it all away.
darling, i think that
perhaps, i almost love you
and it is driving me insane.
so take my heart, because 
it is yours anyway.
—  and here is my heart, all for you. 
  • democrats: yeah force people to vote
  • people: what if there's no candidate we want?
  • democrats: this is democracy that never happens
  • people: so what if i just write someone in
  • democrats: okay, if you want the republicans to win I guess. go ahead ruin the country. you're just as bad as them.

i think i knew in hindsight
or i wish i had
that you were just a
temporary person in my life
but i was still hoping
against all odds 
that you weren’t
and i never thought losing you
would affect me like this
but it is affecting me
and now i am scared of
never being able to 
call you my friend

I’m tired of you calling.
Your drunken words
fall onto my sheets
and the stench lingers.
I’m tired of waking up to
middle of the night
‘I  love you’s
that are forgotten
in the morning.
I’m tired of you telling me
you want me
always picking her instead.
—  the words you throw up

              { Unreasonable interest }

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(This is a collab with @sylfidxn who took care of Hugh, while I drew Mads. The comic will have 7 pages so please follow it of you’re interested! For @hannibalcreative‘s #MadancyMarch)  

i couldn’t have been more wrong about you even if i tried to be, but it is a good thing that i was wrong because i learned what was right

thank you drunk caller // JustScribbledWords

She saw him from across the room, but was entirely too nervous to say a word. The alcohol in her system definitely hadn’t kicked in yet. As the night came to an end, she went up to the boy she had been eyeing all night long. She smiled and made small talk, asking for his number. His friends were chanting for the two to kiss. He looked at her with a smirk on his face and went in. The sloppy kiss lasted about 15 seconds. “I’ll call you!” The boy shouted as he walked away with his friends. “I’ll be waiting.” The girl replied back as she watched him walk away, continuing to sip her drink.
—  last night’s encounter // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #21
Alcohol Chronicles

Words: 1,780
Genre: Original, Romance
A/n: Unfortunately, this doesn’t have a title yet, and I don’t know if I’ll continue the story, but here’s something like a chapter 1.  I entitled it Alcohol Chronicles because I wrote something long ago that involved alcohol, and this one involves that as well.  So yeah, hope you enjoy. :)

The first time I saw him, it was in an airplane going to Hong Kong.  He sat just across the aisle from me.  I liked looking at people, and imagining what kind of person they are, or what kind of life stories they hold.  And so I looked (stared) at him for a while (a long time).  He had a prominent bone structure- high cheekbones, and a sharp jawline. He wore glasses, and had small earrings on both his ears.  He liked to rest his chin on his knuckles while watching airplane movies or waiting for food.  He pursed his lips together into a pout when he was thinking of things to say, such as food to get in the airplane or how to operate the airplane TV.  For that whole airplane ride, I weaved back and forth from trying not to look, to giving in to the impulse of staring.  

Usually, it was easy to read people, but this one was sort of different.  I thought, maybe he was a cool guy, because he sort of had a bad boy vibe going on. His eyes were brown and heavy lidded- mysterious and piercing.  I say this because our eyes made contact when he caught me staring at him.  He bowed in greeting, and I bowed back with an embarrassed smile.  He returned the smile with a slightly mischievous smirk. A smirk? That confused me because when he tried talking to the flight attendants, he was shy and he moved quite awkwardly. When he conversed with his friends, his smile was like a boy’s- carefree and shy and innocent and (admittedly) adorable. When he laughed, his eyes would vanish and (happy) lines would form around them.  He looked like trouble, but he felt kind of…warm.

Keep reading

I do honestly think you’ll find someone better and that’s slightly terrifying. But not too terrifying, because I guess I’ll survive without you but I don’t want to.
—  Excerpt from the book I’ll never write
Text me when you’re drunk tomorrow. Text me when you’ve had three whiskey sours,two beers, and ten cigarettes.
Text me when you’re drunk and you don’t
know your left arm from your right but you wonder what it would be like to have my crimson lipstick all over your mouth again.
Text me because you’re bored, because you’re curious, because you want the scent of my perfume stuck on your t-shirt one last time.
Text me for the hell of it,because you want my sun soft fingers bending beneath your bones,because you still remember how pretty i look in parking lot light.
Text me because one day we won’t be able to blame our youth or the alcohol. Because one day I’ll have a husband, a new number or an apartment in New York City, and we both know that once that day comes there will be more than a nine character message keeping me from crawling back into your bed to say my goodbye.
—  Just Drunk Text Me. by brittney l. melvin

Sometimes Raphael Malenko dreamt of a naked cat. Standing on two bony, trembling back legs, it tugged on one sleeve of a pair of bloodied jeans that he wore and whispered the same stinging words as it softly cried. “You’ve taken everything away from me,” it would sob. “You’ve taken everything away, and I hate you for it.”

His apartment was dark. Raphael didn’t remember turning off the lights after coming home, but then again, he didn’t remember much of last night anyway. As he slowly sat up (trying to ignore a nasty throbbing in the back of his skull) from the wooden floor of his common room, something long and hard poked at the inside of his thick legs. Raphael pulled off the thin layers of white sheets that covered his lower body and stared at an empty fifth of tequila. After picking up and placing the transparent bottle to the side of his makeshift bed, he stood up and stumbled to the entrance of his kitchen. It was bare except for a small steel table and two cheap wooden chairs, but a small blue solo cup was placed by the steel handles of his sink, along with a note that was written in compact cursive.


Raphael shook his head and smiled before filling and downing the cup with warm water multiple times. There wasn’t any light shining through the drapes from his common room, so he guessed that it was too early to go have breakfast downstairs. He lived five stories above a small beachside cafe, high enough to be above the noise of the busy strip below, but not so high that it made him short of breath after returning home every night. It was perfect, and aside from the occasional hangovers that he suffered after enjoying the various clubs and bars that boomed close by most nights, he was thankful to live in such a convenient spot. A clear view of the beach. Gourmet food and coffee not minutes away. It had been a long time since he lived so good.

Art / Naoto Hattori, Lucid Dreamer