I know I need to dry out. And I want to. I really, really want to. This idea of getting sloshed everyday … it’s unhealthy and limits my potential.
I have to point fingers here. It’s her fault. Totally. Her. Fault. She plies me with the stuff. She knows I can’t say “no.” She walks around carrying that carafe of hers, its contents sloshing. Yes, I do like a drink every now and again. But not several times a day! It’s too much! How can she not notice when I’m completely soaked?
Actually, now that I think of it, she probably doesn’t notice. She looks flushed most of the time herself. And when she leaves the house, for all I know she’s outside barking at the moon.
There is no responsible adult here to cut her off, and that worries me. Some guy was coming around for a while, and she mostly ignored me then. Which was fine by me. Let the two of them have their liquid lunches. Leave me out of it!
They used to spend the whole afternoon drinking, singing, and arguing. Long-winded conversations that mostly ended with a lot of shouting.
“Paul died in 1966!”
“He did not!”
“Yes, he did! That’s not really him walking around. It’s someone who looks exactly like him!”
“You’re crazy and you’re hammered! And your conspiracy theories bore me.”
Sometimes, this would continue into the wee hours. I don’t know who that Paul fellow is. But they yelled a lot about him and usually ended up singing “Don’t let me down …” over and over, out of tune, louder and louder. Getting more and more drunk.
A couple of times the cops showed up here. A neighbor must have complained about the ruckus. Occasionally she and her friend got abusive, while I cowered in the corner. I’ve had a half-glass of wine thrown at me more than once, I can tell you. No wonder I’m stunted.
Anyway, he doesn’t come around anymore. And she drinks more than ever. She starts early in the morning and is completely blotto by the afternoon.
I would dearly love to run away and find a healthy environment in which to grow up. But I’m stuck here in my corner, in my clay pot.