Attempts at Adulthood #2

My parents’ liquor cabinet was like a forbidden cave of mystique. I knew that one of the many privileges of adulthood lay within that mahogany cave. The fact that I was not allowed to drink what my parents drank made my thirst for maturity much more rabid.

I wanted to taste those sexy drinks.

“They must taste better than anything”, I thought. Why else did the grown-ups act so happy when drinking them? Clearly a parent’s main goal was to deprive their children of fun, as always.

One night at dinner, as my father sipped from some pretty concoction, I yelped in umbrage, “The distribution of these wondrous brews are of an inequitable nature! I, the oppressed, wish to subvert the status quo by partaking in the lustrous mead of the aristocratic class. Can you see past your tyrannical complexion for but one moment as to allow one petty freedom in this world of torment and anguish?!”

Or something like that.

My dad replied, “Sure, have a sip.”

“VICTORY!” I thought.

Gross.

“How could they drink that crap?”, I thought.

When college came around, I understood. Yet, by then it became glaringly obvious that the people who drank excessively were the most childish. The realization came that it’s not actually mature to get sloppily drunk and then pee off of a roof, or drink a bottle of hot sauce, or climb a tall man that you believe to be a tree, or hit on a police officer, or sing Aladdin songs in the street at 3 a.m., or vomit AROUND the toilet before passing out on a freshly-painted windowsill.

It’s really a shame. Just when I thought I was starting to grow up…..

I realize I’m actually just a gin-soaked cookie monster.

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