I have an urge to write something prolific but I just consumed a fairly large amount of alcohol so this will probably turn into a garbled mess of rants. Or maybe it will lead to the next great American novel. Did Kerouac start drinking before he wrote? Or did he start writing before he drank? These are the stupid, quasi-serious topics I debate with myself when I drink. That’s why I rarely drink. Tomorrow morning I will wake around nine and check the social networks I belong to. This post will have probably been fed into my Facebook notes by then. I will cringe at my idiotic questions. I will cringe at the stupidity of the night’s events and why I even headed to the newest local watering hole. I will probably not delete this post, instead remaining optimistic that no one wastes their time on my thoughts anyways.

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