THE HURT, BEER COUNT; DRUNK AT HOME.

I got home drunk. Not walk on my knees drunk. With liquor on my breath drunk is what I mean. But that’s not the story mum will tell dad and everyone else with a listening ear.
“…is this what you have been doing in school all along? When I send you pocket money and…” she’d been talking for a while now. Wow. She was even frothing at the sides of her mouth. I was tired. I needed to sleep. I can’t tell her this though. Otherwise I risk getting kicked off the house.
“…you are intent on destroying this family and the legacy we…” yeah right. Family. My family? We weren’t destroyed yes but we were just as bad as any other family out here. If they were bad. Is your family okay? Mine looks like anything between the Assholes Convention and… Okay, clearly nothing can top that.
“…is this the role model you want to be for your sisters?” she asks. Are you a role model to us? I nearly ask. It’s useless though. And is the type of shit that gets you killed in your mama house. Parents have tried so hard to mould us they forget to mould themselves. Forgetting humans are better at aping than on learning. Aping.
“…you are always trying to top your mischievous self, aren’t you? From the time you went viral for drinking in school uniform!!” Damn. Here we go.
Since she has mentioned it, I might as well go ahead and tell it. But first, I need to leave this towering presence.
“mum?”
“what?” she hated when you disturbed her train of thought.
“The oven,” I said in simplicity.
“oh.”
That had her.

The universe can conspire with you if you caress it well enough.

The universe can conspire with you if you caress it well enough. And I was a pimp. She’d forgotten about her cake. So, I snuck out the living room and into my room. I didn’t key the door. I simply shut it so she’d open and not say I’d lock her out.
I loved this room. One wall was painted Knight, the Devil and Death. A copy of Albrecht Dürer me and dad made. He couldn’t hold back emotions when he found out I was secretly in love with Albrecht’s art. He’d found something he and I could talk about for hours on end. It was important for him. The connection. Unlike his wife.
There was also a wall with nothing but books. He made me a wall bookstand. The love I have for this man. We worked our way to getting a thousand books, if not more, to cover the expanse of the shelf. I had read nearly half, if not more, while he had read all of them, from his years back or upon purchase. If you think my library was something, you should see my old man’s…. Oh, I was talking about my Fuck up. The story every guest is told when they inquire about how familiar my face is…
The family drinks. Alcohol. The menfolk and mum does. My aunt and the sisters in law, not that much but they drink anyways. I never did and could. Not because I couldn’t rather I didn’t wanna. I then learnt of something called “beer count.” This is the amount of beers you’d drink before you slept with someone. A friend told me it was dangerous for a woman to have a low count because the moment you take two beers, you’re done for. Your legs become easy to open and your panties easy to slide off. So, I started acquainting myself with beer and liquorage. I was doing nothing save protecting myself from rape and easiness in a woman. Which isn’t a bad thing, right?
So, this one time, I’m this party, we drink our heads off and are downing liquor by their kegs and litres I reckon. Luckily, I can hold my liquor.
The secret to not passing out and losing control when drunk, is to keep on drinking and keep your mind active while at it. You don’t drowsy off and pass out. At least as per my body.
We keep on drinking with a gang of friends, of both genders while a majority of ladies leave with men by their hand to their houses and shit. I ain’t taking no man though. Ain’t no way a nigga getting this pussy tonight! I have a monstrous beer count so, a dude is trynna match it but thank goodness, the nig passes out. In the early hours of dawn, I don’t like dawn. It’s when drunk women get raped. So, I do the most logical thing, take my drunk ass off the party. Before I left however, a friend started taking a video of me drunk talking. It was sick. And reckless of both of us. Next thing I know, I’m on everyone’s status and timeline. It was only a matter of time before these trash and junk blogs picked up my story and to pick they did. And they turned me to my generation’s imbecile.
“Drunk Girl Shows off her Pussy”
“Drunk Girl Gives Men Her All”
“A Generation of Drunks?! Click for Video”
“What Girls Do When Parents are Away”
I had all sorts of headlines attached to my body and face. My whole family and friends came to hear of it. Mum was over her head with this. Daddy didn’t really care about it but wanted an explanation from me. Nothing but the truth. I got off with a pinch on my elbow from him and a lecture on how to handle myself with such people. How to avoid further embarrassments in future. I was given instructions to not stay back whenever I’m drunk. That I’d rather pass out at home than outside. He, on the other hand, blamed himself for bad parenting and removed all liquor from view. Saying it was this that influenced me. 😢. I wished he wouldn’t blame himself.
Mummy took my phone. Maybe I deserved it. Did I?
With all the liquor in the house and shit. Maybe I was set out to be a drunk but maybe I was made for this. I mean, wasn’t Shakespeare the one that said, others had greatness thrust upon them?
I know liquor is a problem sometimes, but I made a pledge to not buy liquor with anyone’s money save my own. It isn’t right. I don’t get bought beer either. I have half a mind to make my own money so, why drink someone else’s? Yet they won’t afford to make me tipsy.
I had to go to therapy after. Dad ensured it. Said with all the negative whippings I’d had from the press, he didn’t want his daughter broken. It was helpful. I love him for it.


My door opened.
Dad.
“Hello Mandy?” he always knew when I wasn’t sleeping. Mostly cos I couldn’t help smiling when he called my name…
I sat up. Duvet to my chin.
“Look how big you’ve grown mammi Bear?” he hugged me. Always did.
“I’m sorry Daddy,” I said. Sadly. With half a cry. I didn’t know where to be sorry or not. I nearly told him mum was overreacting but he’d made it clear he’ll always be on mama’s side.
“Well, why don’t you tell me everything then?” His voice was relaxed and cool. Warm.

P.S. this story was written and posted courtesy of my good friend 💙 Makena who is the originator of the idea and topic.

P. P. S. please use drugs and alcohol responsibly. Abuse of drugs might result in health problems including death.

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