Alcohol is making me stupid.


Yesterday I was slicing up a pear with an insufficiently sharp knife when I forgot your name. I knew it wasn’t Adam or Steve, but I had no idea about any of those J options, Justin or Jordan or Jeff. I squinted, because squinting is the international sign of remembering stuff, but all I got was a blurry pear that I wound up putting in the blender anyway. It was only okay. I’m too stupid these days to mind drinking my food. Then I read your name in an email from the landlord complaining about your boots, still in the hall, all eight pairs, or maybe seven and a half. Now I’ll never know if I’d have remembered your name on my own, or if my recently stupefied brain had tossed it to lighten to load, the way you do when carrying all your worldly possessions while attempting to outrun a tsunami, which is a dream I constantly fucking have. It’s exhausting, and totally inconvenient because it happens while you’re sleeping. Like what the fuck.

Youtube is also making me incredibly stupid. I used to read lengthy articles in reputable publications and come away with cogent thoughts, but now I just lap up Youtube from a bowl on the floor. I haven’t seen a stipple portrait in over a decade. I was trying to explain this to the librarian downtown, but she didn’t recognize my request for a delicately scripted fig.a, ideally in the original latin—please, miss, anything with a footnote will do, I said, but it came out “fupnuff” and then my tongue slid out wetly from between my jaws and collected in a pool at my feet, too stupid to keep the company of my teeth, which have purpose. 

Other things making me stupid include flavored water, everything packaged for one-time use, and Sears; an establishment I never enter but whose vapors permeate the atmosphere and turn the rain into Windex. Convenient, but it’s poison. If you don’t bring your boots inside they’ll be indigo blue by spring. 

Being so stupid, I miss the subtleties which used to guide me, so I oaf around my life with heavy confusion and trample many daisies. Tolerance is a burden, art is overrated, rejection melts pointlessly where it once impaled. I don’t find this ignorance blissful, as the freshman philosophers warned, but it’s a wide, smooth blankness to splay across, and it’s easy on my back. If you told me that you were leaving for good, or that you loved me deeply, I may have missed it, too stupid to listen—but send me a text.

Words by: Adria Kloke
Illustration by: Graham Hart