As methods of coping, some people attend local bars to drink away their troubles whilst others find comfort in sleeping in a cocoon of their bedsheets through the afternoon on a monday. I, for one, have never taken pleasure in either “practices”. Not because I haven’t considered having a fruity cocktail once in awhile, however when I reached the age of fourteen, as a teenager, I was forever scarred by a birthday speech given to me by my mother. It seemed I was already being chastised for an offense I had not even yet committed. With a carefully chosen seven-word series, she said attentively making sure to articulate every nuance, “If you drink alcohol, you will die.” She also droned on about the consequences of other various doings that would mark me a delinquent, and well, I did not

Narrative Nonfiction

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