A pint can’t hurt.
Why do I always think that?
More likely a pint can’t help.
This writing implement depresses me.
They are dead things, and I scratch and stab with them.
Cold to the touch, and the ink so black.
Still, the feather does tickle my fancy.
I should write something in the comic vane.
I tend too much to melancholy, the dread and drear.
Can people seriously be entertained by so much blood and tears?
Would it not be infinitely better to witness lighter fare?
Who would not rather laugh than weep? – ah, you Greeks.
But I do question my humorous sensibility.
Sometimes I doubt my comic capability.
Is anything I write at all ever so funny?
Do people even grasp my sense of humor?
I wonder, will they laugh at any of my quips once I am gone?
Any humor residual, they’ll say, is buried with him in his grave.
Grave words indeed to bed down with worms.
Fit for a tumble or a tombstone.
Now is that funny?
Hah! I smell the humor gone upstairs and out the door to high heaven.
Humor, wherefore are thou? Left and not a single joke for me?
We will see, I say, let me tickle my nose with this quill.
I laugh not, must need another pint.
At this point one more could neither help nor hurt; I am far beyond.
Some days the writing flows, and others it’s blocked up as the pyramids.
What author of consequence would not sacrifice his right eye to end writer’s block?
Oh Homer, immortal bard, did you give both?
I wonder what would I not part with?
I swear I would not surrender this damn pen in any less than a trice.
Ay me, the publican has called it quits,
So soon; I must to bed ere it be morrow.
Huh. There’s a line in there, a palpable line.
When alcohol brings it on, best write it down before it’s gone.
But soft, what was the line again?
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed?
Wait. Is that early only, or not to rise too late?
Ah well, one decent line a day is all I can anticipate.