you cannot depend on an alcoholic, so you learn to live for the moments when they are present. you tell yourself you’ll leave, but then they do something wonderful that reels you back: host a picnic on the living room floor in january; find the face of Jesus in a pancake; celebrate the cat’s birthday by inviting all the other neighbourhood cats for tuna. you can use all the good times to paint over the bad, and pretend you can no longer see the grain of wood that she’d made of. you watch her wade through sobriety and secretly wish she would drink, because that is when she turns into the person you love; and then you cannot figure out who you hate more: yourself for thinking this, or her for reading your mind.
chicklit la, goodshite.