... This is what it looks like.
As I think back into the dark times of my life, the best times my mother and I had were when we were drunk.
Fourteen.. fifteen years old. I remember it like it's yesterday. Standing outside in the middle of the road, ten feet away from each other at two o'clock in the morning, just yelling at each other.
She was afraid that I was going to hell because all of my friends were gay. My whole family went through this phase where they all NEEDED to know if I was gay or not. I was thirteen and apparently needed the 'if a male deer and a male deer were to mate..' speech on a regular basis.
(me at 15 between my mom's boyfriend(at the time)'s legs. We were at a big halloween house party together.)
I refused to tell them. Eventually it just ate them until they died.
Now they are more accepting of diverse lifestyle choices.
Anyways- I remember those days.
Today I'm just going to look back on it and laugh. So? Who cares if my mother and I have the best times being drunk together? (not that the one incident I mentioned is considered a 'good' time. We just look back on it and get a giggle.)
I'm sure I'm a rare instance where being drunk with my mother is fun. I should appreciate this more.
I love my mom. I'm so stupid for holding this over her head.
