I was thirteen. You were drunk. Again. And yet, somehow, I was the black sheep of the family, even then.
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My father would actually stop in his tracks and watch with a baleful eye whenever he noticed me pouring a glass of Coke for myself. If I succeeded in handling the 2-liter bottle without incident, he would walk on disgruntled, muttering at the lost opportunity to launch a tirade. Some dads might’ve just poured the soda FOR their kids, but that’s just crazy talk.
P.S. “Bing-slam-bang” was indeed something I was frequently accused of.