I Don't Care

I think I’ll become a drunk.  My brother got his sentence, his stalking sentence, today.  20 more days in jail after serving 6 months—not out for Christmas.  Michael had his Visa card number stolen and found out about it this morning.  Some scumbag charged an airline ticket on it.  He also fell down while scraping snow off the portable garage roof, and strained his already injured shoulder muscles.  By lunchtime I was ready for a drink, so I added rum to my tea.

Booze is better than drugs or more pills.  I already take an anti-depressant, and even if my brother wasn’t crazy and in jail, while I pay his rent so he can keep his tiny apartment with the low rent, I’d still have to take the pills to keep being married.  My husband’s ranting makes me stiffen my neck muscles, as if each and every word of his rant is a blow to my back.  So the pills have to continue, but I could add liquor.

Liquor makes me mellow, relaxed, and devil-may-care.  The devil cares, I don’t.  My husband is yelling because Obama said something he and Fox News considers stupid?  I don’t care.  My brother stalked a girl for months and then got arrested?  I don’t care.  My Mom died and left me with my brother?  I really don’t care.  My daughter in San Diego is on the edge of being homeless several times a year?  I kind of don’t care.  My dearest grandchildren live in a foreign country that costs $1000 to fly to, a minimum of $25 to send anything to, and $1 to send a card to?  I don’t care.  I’ll be going to a memorial service on Saturday because a woman I’ve known since high school has just died?  And the three old classmates who I’ll see there all have or have had cancer?  If I put brandy in my eggnog when I get home, a lot of brandy, maybe I won’t care.