Too Drunk to Revise

I'm a nightshift kind of person, and I have just returned from a rather nice bar with my wife. We had a good time, but needless to say, I've had to sacrifice the contents of my stomach to the God (you know, the porciline one). I may even have to get more zealous before I pour myself into bed and read my latest Grisham thriller (A Time to Kill). I thought I had a GI bleed at first, but then I realized I'd been drinking red wine--like it made a difference to me in my state.

Needless to say, I won't be updating my latest chapter revision tonight. When you've had too much to drink every thing sounds freakin great and nauseating at the same time. I like the dichotomy, but...excuse me...I have to...

This is an opening to my query letter to agents for my first novel. Do you think I should send it out just like it is or...oh god...not again...

I feel so much better. My finger, the one I stuck down my esophagous, smells like death, so I think I'll go wash my hands, but I felt it important to remind you to always wipe off the mouse before touching it if it ain't yours.

This must have been what it was like for Fitzgerald. As I drape an arm over your neck to support my weight, I'd like to tell you all this: I've went to the Azores many times as a wee-twenty-year-old. I used to read F. Scott and listen to Boz Skaggs while sitting in the club during the afternoons there (nice to see things haven't changed). What must it have been like to be in the roaring twenties? In the Azores I actually believed I could be a writer. Then I gave it all up, because I believed the crap that it was impossible to be published. I didn't realize that only applied to the crap writers that fill editor's slush piles. So I gave it up for twenty-two years. What a loser I was--am. Can you imagine? If I had stuck to it with the confidence I have now, I'd probably have about twenty manuscripts and one or two of them would already be major motion pictures. I gave it up (Just picture me blubbering now.).

Hemingway, Fitzgerald, they keep calling me. I want it so bad. Writing is my only talent. If I can't be a writer--I'm nothing. Isn't that what this is all about? Huh?

I feel sick again. I think I'll let my finger stink so I can throw up easier. Then I'll wash my hands and go to bed. The mouse is your problem. Thanks for listening.

Just call me Ed

To those who say I wasn't really drunk. I only wish I could agree with you. I only wish it was a trick. Though, I am feeling better now. I could use a cold beer.

What is it about writing and drinking?