You never start out being an alcoholic, I told you once.  Not one of those wild-haired wild-eyed women that have turned the robe as the official alcoholic’s uniform.  It’s a drink at a time, that one nightcap swirling in a glass over the day’s reflection.  Then it turns into two, maybe one more after that– and the next thing, you’re enjoying a couple bottles of red– by yourself, while watching the unraveling of the love lives of some fictional characters you are unquestionably heavily invested in and devoted to, while ignoring the absence of your own.

You didn’t start out looking like an alcoholic.  Eyeliner mascara smoothy shiny hair– that so-perfected bedroom hair.  Now it’s bedroom hair.  You smelled like Grey Goose, red lipstick, cigarette smoke and a lonely ballad but it least it was something.


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