Loving an alcoholic is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad thing.
Loving an alcoholic is living in secrecy--because when people ask you how he's doing, what can you really say? Anything but the truth. The truth is shameful to him. To you. The truth is a secret that no one really wants to hear.
Loving an alcoholic is grasping at straws. Deluding yourself. Willing it to be so, only to watch him fail, and fail, and fall again.
Loving an alcoholic is trying to clean up the aftermath left in its wake. The sickness. The anger. The horror.
Loving an alcoholic is shit. And piss. And vomit. On your floor. On your walls. On his pants.
Loving an alcoholic is listening to the same stories. Telling him the same stories. Because he doesn't remember.
Loving an alcoholic is learning to live with excuses, because you just don't have the strength to do anything else anymore.
Loving an alcoholic is violent tremors and bodily fluids. And wine. And scotch. And vodka.
Loving an alcoholic is watching him lose himself. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Drink by drink.
Loving an alcoholic is learning to lose him. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Drink by drink.
Loving an alcoholic is sorrow. And grief. And despair.
Hi, I'm Andy. And my father is an alcoholic.
Everyone else here is writing "Dear New Orleans" posts this month. I feel the need to write a "Dear America" post. I've tried really hard to refrain from Katrina anniversary posts. But some make it impossible to do so. So here we go.
Dear America: Shut up. No, really. Until you are also willing to judge everyone who lives in an area that could be hit by a tornado (which could really be any of us, if bad luck strikes; but Kansas and the rest of tornado alley, I'm giving you the side-eye in particular right now). Unless you're also willing to judge everyone who lives in any area where there are mudslides, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, massive river floods, forest fires, etc.--did I miss anything? Oh, yeah--TSUNAMIS. Just. Shut. Up.
Facts: there were ZERO rapes and murders at the Superdome after Katrina. There were ZERO rapes and murders at the Convention Center after Katrina. Did people die? Yes. One guy killed himself at the dome. One man was shot in the back by police at the convention center bc he begged them for help. The cops claim he came at them aggressively. His name was Danny Brumfield. Look it up. Did people die? Yes. From heat exhaustion and no food or water for five days. Or, by, you know, DROWNING.
I am sad to report that Phil, one of the feeder fish we won with a ping pong ball at the Atchafalaya catfish festival, has passed on to that great pond in the sky. Emmeline conducted a lovely ceremony for him, and we honored his short, sweet, wet life. Steve, our other feeder fish, is recovering in the loving fins of our other goldfish, Dorothy, Elmo, and Oscar. Long live Steve.
This article made me cackle. Who Dat, bitches.
"As Drew Brees enters his twilight years we’re totally fucked. Brees could kill and eat a baby on local tv and we would throw a parade for him. We’re going to keep him around until he’s just a pile of parts tweeting out ads for his Jimmy John’s franchises."