She wants me to stop drinking.

The easy answer. I do it for her. To tame the animal heart in me. But not really true. My animal heart is who I really am.

There’s a category called “Rough with the smooth.”

We are together. Thing is, without the wicked drink, we wouldn’t be. We split, so many years and years ago. All not gonna happen. Then, one night, decades later, I mean DECADES, I got drunk, called her up, I mean actually hounded a 411 operator half to death to get that number, and I found a woman who was still in love with me. So she wants me to stop drinking. So do I. I just can’t. It’s the disease called life. A thing in me I can’t kill without killing me. Youngest admitted to Harvard, youngest to graduate. So here I am. Alive because I’m too mean not to be.

I love the TV shows that fret and fume about drinking, and I love those innumerable friends of Bill. I was born an alcoholic. 16 years old and done for. Really. Truly. Honestly. Alky, alky, alky. And still I do not die. THAT’s the miracle if you ask me.

So I do this instead. Melatonin. Use it as a sedative. I think it’s hurting my eyes. But it calms me down. I don’t look like I’m drinking as much.

But here’s the thing. So. I did this.

Books.

And this.

A Half-Dozen Astounding Things I Did on One Page Each.

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