HALIFAX, N.S. — For third-year creative writing student Anthony Meyers, studying starts with a bottle of whisky and not showering for a week. Meyers aims to imitate those who inspired him to pursue a future in writing: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jack Kerouac and Ernest Hemingway are just some of Meyers’ alcoholic heroes.
“I tried the usual studying tactics,” says Meyers, “I set alarms, made to-do lists and shut my phone off, but I just felt like I was getting further and further away from who I wanted to be when I started on this path. The greats weren’t using the Pomodoro technique; they were using the PourMeMore technique.”
We at the Mackerel think that if Meyers’ puns are any indication of his writing ability, he should switch career paths before it’s too late.
When the assignments really start piling up, Meyers has a special tool: starvation.
“If I’m hungry, then I’m more motivated to write, and it makes the alcohol hit harder. All the great artists were struggling to make ends meet. They couldn’t afford food, and neither can I.”
Meyers neglected to comment when asked about his trust fund.
Meyers seems to have had limited success with his unique technique. Professors describe him as “unpleasant,” and he boasts a 2.4 GPA and a permanent 0.24 per cent blood alcohol concentration. Despite multiple interventions from loved ones, his blackened liver and shortened life expectancy, Meyers defended his unremarkable work by reminding us that many great artists were underappreciated until they passed. He believes he has already written his best work, even if those around him can’t see it.
Below is a sample of Meyers’ work:
I woke up and threw my dark brown hair in a messy bun. I threw the book I was reading, Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief, into my backpack. See, I’m not like my classmates. They all like One Direction, but I just like reading. It takes me away from my miserable existence.
As I walk down the stairs, I see five strange men waiting near the door. They all turn to face me. “‘Ello, Love,” says the one with long hair. I turn to my mom in shock.
“Meet your new family,” she says. “I sold you to them for drug money.”
I gasp.
“We’re One Direction,” they shout.
By Ryan Van De Wiel