Tequila and my dad were besties for a long time. Tequila was the type of friend that manipulated him into becoming a different person. My dad, eager to please, reluctantly morphed time after time. His comrade in crime was always ready. Eventually they created a vacuum-sealed life that prevented anyone besides themselves from getting inside.
The leftover words that hadn’t been forgotten on their way to blackout.
Their relationship evolved. Like many co-dependent situations, they became an “Us” and put themselves against “them.” The them was me. Daddy and I went from being the best of friends to severed. They disagreed with the boundaries I set — “Don’t call me if you’ve been drinking.” They couldn’t handle it. Instead, they called me a collection of names that they’d cleverly (or lazily) assembled together. A string of slanders that could be used as nouns, verbs, or descriptors slurred together like leftover soup. That’s kind of what they were. The leftover words that hadn’t been forgotten on their way to blackout.