Parameters: You have one piece of lined paper to answer the prompt in a sober and drunk state of mind. You’re considered drunk when you believe it to be so. It’s encouraged to respond to the prompt while sober at least a day before you write it whilst drunk. Give it a day in between to forget what you wrote sober, and then let the good times roll.
Prompt: What is it you’re looking for that you haven’t found yet?
Sober Response: 8/14/26
It’s close, not yet in the day to day but rather in that dream-crammed bin in my mind. We’ve come a long way, that bin and I, both once completely hollow and not looking to be filled save for things that would keep us closed and locked away within the fear of what could be.
What I’ve been looking for is quite simple, which is perhaps why it’s been hiding amidst the folding of mundane days after days.
All I’m looking for, everyday, is to create and explore. Now, I can’t travel everyday, at least not yet, so as for now I think this looks like being open to whatever comes my way. I’m looking for more of those moments when I’m sitting in Rittenhouse Square, and for once not consumed by my chronic hand-wringing, nonsensical worry, able to notice the juggler in the middle of the park saying to a small child, “you’re upset? You know what THAT means?! THIS!” and then pelting his juggling balls at who I presume was the child’s weary-worn father.
That’s what it’s all about, for me. Observing and then sharing the story. There’s really nothing else, other than my mom, that’s kept me going mundane day after day.
I’ve found I’m decent at tracking down chaos, quite good at it actually. What I’m looking for is to balance that a bit more with long solo spurts at a cafe counter, or my haphazardly organized desk, writing and spilling my thoughts onto the page.
Why on earth is the self the hardest thing to remain tethered to, when it’s the closest thing you’re ever near?
Too much thinking, where’s my beer
Drunk Response: 8/16/26
Today I ran in the most beautiful trail I’ve only ever seen in the pages of Outside Magazine. A forest green canopy covering a lovely, winding dirt path.
For the first time since I moved to Colorado six years ago on a dime and a whim, I thought, “Damn. Decent use of my free will.”
Yet, even amidst that nirvana, my shadow remained attached. Nothing is all ever figured out or found, and thank the good fuckery for that. I know what I want to find, I have for years. Sadly I seem to take a wasteful amusement in the cat and mouse game of eluding it, which at the end of the day just keeps me swimming in circles and addicted to nicotine.
I write this from a strange city in a rooftop restaurant that’s way above my pay grade. I had no plan after my run except to get drunk, and I wandered in here.
“Think I can get in wearing this?” I asked the doorman. (I’m wearing a heinous outfit of red ketchup running shorts and a mustard yellow tank top. Why did I dress like a hot dog?) The doorfella laughed, which was a huge score.
“Sure,” he said. “Go to the 30th floor.”
I read this morning my favorite writer David Sedaris wrote in his twenties there were days he constantly felt like a monk who’d swallowed hot coals, so maybe I’m doing just fine. I’ll keep lookin’ for what’s next out my back door.
Songs writing this made me think of:
“I’ll Follow the Sun” (The Beatles)
“Lookin’ Out My Back Door” (Creedence Clearwater Revival)
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