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i am my fathers daughter

my mother often laments and complains about my father. sheíll tell me about how he stays up late drinking and when she gets up in the morning there is an empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, or a bunch of empty beer bottles lined up on the kitchen counter. she complains that he spends hours in the computer room, playing with photos or just playing solitaire. she complains that when he has a bit to drink he talks incessantly, mostly about himself and always bullshit. she complains that there are days when he just doesnít get out of bed.

it is true, i am my fatherís daughter.

it is true i have been drinking more lately. i talk a lot of bullshit when iíve passed that buzz stage and headed towards the drunk stage. i will waste hours playing with my photos. iíve told you about my bouts of sadness that make it difficult to leave my bed. last night though i hit an all time low. i spent 5 hours playing solitaire and drinking beer, alone. after each losing hand i told myself i was going to stop and go to bed. i set myself limits. iíll just go $500 into the red. then when i reached that i set my limit to $750, that came and went and the new limit was $1000, that then ballooned to $2000. itís a torturous, evil game solitaire. just when you think that you have the right cards to win, defeat hits you.

of course i donít tell my mother any of this. it will worry her unnecessarily. she likes to think that i am more like her than my father. but alas not only have i inherited his looks and his muscly thighs, i have also inherited all his bad traits.