In the interest of promoting the betterment of literature, last night I poured glass of Fireball, say down with the laptop, drank a bit, and then got to work.
There's a strong tradition of drinking and writing--Hemingway was a pro at it--and I figured why not? What if deep within me is literary genius untapped because of some inhibition I'm unaware of, and all it takes is a drink or two to let it out?
I had to find out.
I sipped and wrote, sipped some more, and by the time the glass was empty and I'd written five pages, there was only one conclusion.
Fireball makes your tongue hurt if you keep it in your mouth too long.