What is one question you hate to be asked? Explain.
“A sober man at a party is lonely as a journalist, implacable as a coroner, bitter as an angel looking down from heaven.”
— Michael Chabon, Wonder Boys
“Why don’t you drink?” she asked, eying me in a way one would a narc.
She stood in front of me, two drinks in hand. One of them for her and the other for me. Except when she offered mine, I shook my head and responded with, “No, thank you.” By her reaction, you would have assumed threatened her with violence.
Most people are understanding. Most people are taught how to take no for an answer. And most people would think it rude to ask for a person’s autobiography when denying a drink. She, however, was not “most people.”
I hate parties, and I don’t know why I agreed to attend this one. Maybe it’s the way she could twist my arm. The way she got me to do things outside my comfort zone. I appreciated people like her. People who can talk me out of my usual morose state and drag me out to have a fun time, but parties? Parties have and never will be a fun time.
Since adolescence, parties have only meant one thing (well, two things): Alcohol.
Continue reading “Sober Man at a Party”
Dad’s been busy doing dad things. He’s suffering what he calls book ennui. Nothing is interesting him and he’s writing habits have reduced. I don’t know, but I worry about him sometimes. He’s given up sodas, I hear. Which worries me more. He’s trying to eat less yummy food, which has me downright frightened.
Chapin City Blues 