Non-fiction memoir addiction self-help
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General) North American (US West Coast - California, Portland)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I drank, I drank fume blanc at the Ritz Carlton hotel and I drank double shots of johnny walker, black on the rocks at a dingy chinese restaurant across the street from my office and I drank at home for a long time. I drank expensive red wine and I learned to appreciate the subtle differences between a silky merlot and a tart cabernet sauvignon and a soft, earthy beaucastel from the south of France. But I never really cared about those nuances because honestly they were beside the point. Toward the end I kept two bottles of cognac in my house, the bottle for show which I kept on the counter and the real bottle, which I kept in the back of a cupboard beside an old toaster. The level of liquid in the show bottle was fairly consistent, decreasing by an inch or so, perhaps less each week. The liquid in the real bottle disappeared quickly. Sometimes within days I was living alone at the time when I did this, but I did it anyway and it didn't occur to me not to. It was always important to maintain appearances. I drank when I was happy and I drank when I was anxious and I drank when I was bored and I drank when I was depressed, which was often I started to raid my parents liquor cabinet. The year my father was dying, he'd be in the back of their house in Cambridge, lying in the hospital bed in their bedroom and I'd steal into the front hall bathroom and pull out a bottle of old granddad that I'd hidden behind the toilet. It tasted vile. The bottle must have been 15 years old, but my father was dying, dying very slowly and gradually from a brain tumor. So I drank it anyway, and it helped. My mother found that bottle empty that april the day of my father's funeral. I had thrown most of the others away, but I must have forgotten that one, and she discovered it stashed behind the toilet as she was cleaning the front bathroom for guests. I was sitting at the dining room table and as she walked through the room, the bottle in her hand. She glared at me, a look of profound disappointment. So I lied.