my careless contagion

The author with a full-blown case of the Blatz circa 1978. You can tell when you're talking to a real alcoholic because they'll identify themselves as one, even after going years without drinking. The mechanisms that make them an alcoholic were there before they started drinking, as well. I consider myself an alcoholic who doesn't drink. My father was an alcoholic. Well, he still is. But he stopped drinking many moons ago. It's been said that people use alcohol as an excuse to do and say what they want to do and say; it's okay because they were drunk or buzzed and didn't mean it. It's like kids saying mean things on the playground and then, "Just kidding," making it even worse because why are you crying when I was just kidding? It's a one-two punch. Well, my dad was a womanizer, too. Swore like I've heard no one else swear. In fact, I've never seen anyone get as angry as my father. I thought he was going to kill one of my ...

Living alone again has taught me a few things. It's helped me to remember some things, too, like I'm not bad at taking care of myself, especially when I have enough time. I can make food. I can clean. I can shop for things. Most of my married existence was spent alone anyway, so my skills are not too rusty. Doing laundry is much simpler. It's only a load or two a week.  I can watch whatever I want to watch on TV. I've noticed that I have a hard time watching anything bloody or with a lot of swearing, though. Something in me is bothered by that. I don't know when that started. I enjoy psychological thrillers more than anything else.  Sometimes I sit in my recliner and watch Netflix in my underwear and eat my Haagen Dazs strawberry ice cream (which I think is my new favorite, supplanting pistachio gelato), and it's hard for me to think about the future. I'm simultaneously licking my spoon and licking my wounds.  Let's recount some of my rel...