The second time I wrote while inebriated I spelt inebriated wrong and knew I had to move. I went a few miles south to a small town called toxicated. Things were much easier in toxicated. More...understandable. The second time I wrote in toxicated the cockatoo was gone, which was terrible because he had been a constant source of inspiration.

I remember stumbling through the ridiculously slanted and ever-shifting streets of toxicated searching for a pen, and a little less confidently for the cockatoo. I found neither but I did find a tiny stall owner with some chalk and a blackboard. The tiny stall owner was completely useless at haggling so I managed to walk away with some very cheap writing materials. A couple of cigarettes were all they cost me. The stall owner tried to eat them which of course made me hungry.

I found a refridgerator in a nearby hotel. The array of cans looked very familiar, even more so after I'd drunk and crushed them. I shrugged off the eerie deja vu and rolled some peanut butter sausages.

The building lurched from side to side as I staggered through searching for a writing paradise. The hotel duly provided one as I was cast headlong into a room artistically decorated with a lightshade on the wall and a toilet bowl on the ceiling. If that wasn't inspiration enough, the cockatoo had returned; ipod dock in hand, blasting out some bangin' tunes. The stall owner floated sideways into the room and looked at me expectantly. I threw her another cigarette and shrugged. Then, with one breath-taking, gravity-defying manoeuvre she floated heavily onto my side and settled down to watch me write. This sidelong defiance of gravity was almost as disturbing as her careful chewing of the cigarette. Things can be strange in toxicated. The cockatoo gave be a reassuring nod and I started to write.

The cockatoo scolded me on my character development and the lack of overall cohesion in the story. I argued that it was difficult to fully imagine the personality and mindset of a cockatoo emperor who'd just lost his only heir through constipation. The stall owner farted to clear the air. I got back to work.

Something about the room was bothering me though, especially when I tried to take a drink. I began to wonder if I'd be better off in ebriated. I was slowly coming down with writer's block to make matters worse.

"Toilet block," laughed the cockatoo and bolted out a previously unseen window on the..... wall?

The stall owner had grown bored and floated over to play with the toilet. My wife didn't look particularly happy in the doorway either. My wife.........!

"Don't dare tell me you're inebriated again."

"Well actually....."

Learn more about this author, David Moran.
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