Let me preface this by saying that not all writers/English majors are drunks… Just most of them

It is a long held tradition that English majors like their booze, to the point where I once heard someone say that English is a bar tending major. It doesn't help everyone but I’ll be damned if it doesn't help me.

I discovered this at a Denny’s at 1 am.

I showed up to a Denny’s mildly drunk, and by mildly I really mean almost blacked out. During this event while ranting about how the guy in the corner booth is actually a serial killer bent on poison pancakes my friend suggested we record the night, all we say, and all that happens

At this point we demanded writing utensils and paper. Luckily our waitress was use to people like us and brought us a grease pencil and about 15 place mats. Maybe she was just use to drunk creatives, but I assure you she received and amazing tip for this.

From then on we recorded everything from serial killers, poison pancakes, mounted animal heads coming to life, and our lack of more booze.

We recorded to the point that as Joey was talking to a friend he found at the gas station I was writing the conversation furiously upon his back. Then speeding back to my house we acquired more writer fuel. This fuel happened to be a plastic bottle of brown tequila mixed with a bottle of margarita mix which was all put into a gallon jug that once held bottled water. The mix filled half the jug.

We packed the jug into the car speeding 95 mph down the freeway chain smoking and drinking from the jug we lovingly named El Gato.

Why El Gato you ask? I have no idea.

We flew by cops that never pulled us over and arrived at a friends house and I recorded all. After finishing the jug, blacking out, and waking up the next night I reviewed the place-mats. I was amazed that I had 1, actually numbered the place-mats in my drunken haze and that 2, it really wasn't bad.

Now granted out of 15 place mats it only turned into a page typed because much of it was complete gibberish like

“I hope my pancakes don’t strangle my scrambled eggs” and

“Maybe tumors are really circus fairies bent on world domination.”

For me drinking and writing can be summed up like this:

“Faster and faster we drove down the crowded freeway weaving in and out of traffic like the careful knitting of a coked up old woman. I didn't bother to look at the speedometer anymore. The speed didn't matter as the world became a blur outside the passenger window. We drove as if escaping, running into parts unknown.”