Posting while drunk

Does it really though? Or do you just think it does?

No, this is definitely a real thing. I somehow speak fluid German when I've downed enough. That is a language I've never studied and don't comprehend at all if I'm sober. Also Italian, which I did study and do have some mastery of, but it's only if I drink enough I forget how rusty and incompetent I am at that.

The tradeoff is that at a certain point I forget my native Norwegian, and if I drink a bit beyond that point I also lose English. I've had whole entire conversations in Thai and Japanese, because there have been evenings where those were my only means of mortal communication. These are very much languages I don't know a fucking word of otherwise.

I haven't been drinking much lately, but tonight I am. I'm house-sitting for my dear sister, who had the audacity to leave me alone with a well-stocked wine cellar. More fool she. It's all I can do not to throw a college-style party as seen in American movies circa 2005. I might yet, if it comes to it. I could go for some hijinx about now.
 
"Actually, I'm a drinker with a writing problem." - Brendan Behan

Brendan was a fun guy. He was originally a housepainter by trade, and while in Paris he was asked to paint a sign on the window of a cafe to attract English tourists. He painted:

Come in, you Anglo-Saxon swine
and drink of my Algerian wine.
'Twill make your eyeballs black and blue,
And damn well good enough for you.


After receiving payment for the job, Behan fled before the cafe proprietor had time to have the rhyme translated.

Someone once asked Behan what he thought of drama critics. "Critics are like eunuchs in a harem," he replied. "They're there every night, they see it done every night, they see how it should be done every night, but they can't do it themselves."

And just before he died, he looked up at the nursing nun who was taking his pulse. "Bless you, Sister," he said with a weak smile. "May all your sons be bishops!"
 
Ok, so, it's Friday night, and I may have had one (Or two, who's counting) and I have reached a whole new level of procrastination.
I should be writing something useful, something productive, but instead I'm sitting here chatting with GPT about why I can't find the voice for a character I don't even have a story for yet. Dammit, why does GPT make me feel both good and bad about my writing at the same time? Why is it so hard to find an internal voice for a character I should be able to relate to? Why do I care so much about this?
 
Ok, so, it's Friday night, and I may have had one (Or two, who's counting) and I have reached a whole new level of procrastination.
I should be writing something useful, something productive, but instead I'm sitting here chatting with GPT about why I can't find the voice for a character I don't even have a story for yet. Dammit, why does GPT make me feel both good and bad about my writing at the same time? Why is it so hard to find an internal voice for a character I should be able to relate to? Why do I care so much about this?

Sounds like the AI isn't much help. Maybe just rely on your own instincts?
 
I'm just using it to bounce some ideas around since I can't seem to crack whatever it is that I'm missing--and I know I'm missing something, I just can't find it. I've been iterating on this concept for, I don't know, 3 hours. Sht. Now that I say that I really need to move on and do something productive. Or just go to bed.

I should note that the AI has actually been helpful in pointing certain things out, and the sketch piece has improved, through it's help or sheer bashing it with my forehead, who can say. I'm still not happy with it though.
 
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