No but seriously. I have Wernicke's.

Last night I had drinks. Several, actually. Regardless, when I made it home, I found that I felt like writing. So I did write. Drinking, as it turns out, is a boon for my novel writing. So the phrase: "Write Drunk, Edit Sober" is incredibly accurate.

I managed to dock over a thousand words before I fell asleep.

Reviewing those words tonight, it has become apparent: I have drunk Wernicke's.

The writing is amazing in all the ways my writing is usually good. Everything sounds amazing. Although my content is sometimes incredibly crappy, prose is something that I strive for. Of the very few things I am particular about, the way a sentence is worded and read is near the top of such a hypothetical list (probably next to "not having to walk behind slow people, ever" and "making sure all my groceries are aligned orthogonally to each other when I put them on the check-out conveyor belt"). 

So it turns out I can still do that while drunk. Here are some random sentences (do they make sense? If no, do they at least sound pretty? And regardless, what do you think I was actually trying to say?):

"...any attempt to talk to her ended in her inevitable break down and evasion out and away from her metaphorical confinement..."

Either way, cutting into the pineapple proved a productive venture. 

Among his things was a long list of other things (this is my favorite paragraph by far, because the word "thing" comprises 4% of all words written)

If this island was the physical location of nothingness, then it was also the intellectual center of the goddamn universe. 

For these reasons, I assumed that Tom was no longer existing--breathing, sleeping, moving, aging--in the context of the real world. And it was for these reasons that I accidentally found and then actively shot down Tom's spirit. 

I had wandered around the forest, empty handed with no intent of icing nothing for several hours. 

The birds of the forest were as loud as they had ever been, and I took each call as a whisper of encouragement (although sometimes I took this as a cheer, since parrots had proven time and time again to be quite helpful and supportive.)

"...we let the cognition of Tom's death permeate within us, strengthening our outer core."

Had we ever actually been friends? Or had that merely just been another fruit-leaf-tree syndrome, wherein higher environmental staged are infected with lower level pathogens, and then their response is viewed by a higher order? (okay NVM, this is my favorite paragraph, because what the fuck does this mean?!) 

The fact that she was able to make it to sleep on time was a partial benefit.