i can see how it happens. the pinched head feeling, the frustration, the fuck-it. I can see it as clear as day.
I was hired to cater a private dinner, and i offered to deliver — something i don’t usually do — but because it is close-ish and because there’s little city traffic in August. and because i wanted to be nice. she’s spending a lot of money.
and then i go off in the little electric car to deliver the dinner, and the GPS doesn’t work. can i rent a new car? “you’re renting one already.” can i return this one and rent another one? “we’re not contractually obligated to provide a car with a working GPS.”
thankfully a very nice hair dresser came out of her store to talk on the speaker to the incomprehensible foreign-language man. <sigh> dinner delivered 45 minutes late. I unpack everything and realize that i’ve forgotten to bring their cocktails. i offer to go them, she declines, i subtract an amount from the bill, we hug, i leave.
driving home, just 10 minutes ago, i realize that i now have a pitcher of cocktails in my fridge. and in the car on the way home, i figure I’m going to drink some. More than ‘some’. And then i just wouldn’t say anything.
Then i realized that anyone even thinking like this clearly has a drinking problem. Yes, even 13 months sober.
i came into the house, washed my hands, took a tylenol, and asked my husband to make me tea without asking me how i am.
i’m in here on the computer writing this.
I am fine. I am not a drinker and i will not drink. But i can see how it happens. I can CLEARLY see how it happens.
fuck you wolfie, you’re a gigantic anus. asking me to lie to people. expecting me to keep secrets.
only wolfie would do that. that’s not me. that’s not the real me.
and thank fucking god for that.
and thank fucking god i know the difference between wolfie’s voice and who i really am.