When I was little and in a private school we memorized this verse one time. Something about how if you hate your brother than you can’t love god and so I refused to use the word hate. Not even when we were supposed to say it in the verse. Funny now, because I use it pretty often. I hate him and her and mostly me. I swore to never drink. Ya know. Growing up with an alcoholic dad and all, but I broke that too. Lots. And I kind of get why he does it. It’s like when you’re in a fog or on a **** ton of pills or you get tired of feeling nothing but one emotion and you just want to be different. My mom sat at the kitchen table one day with a knife against her arm and I remember never being more scared. No that’s a lie. I was more scared the day she wouldn't wake up. But I promised that I would never be like her. I’m not. But sometimes, I am. People are so fickle. We promise and we swear and we believe. But it’s so silly because those things we don’t know what we mean. We don’t see all the baseballs that life is throwing in our face and we know that those bumper stickers, “Be who you wanted to be five years ago” are terrifying, because that self would ******* hate us, but they wouldn't say the word hate and they wouldn't drown their not-hate in a bottle of beer and they wouldn't try so **** hard. It’s ridiculous. When I was little I knew lots. I knew that hate and beer and mean mommys were bad, but I didn't know that sometimes they were good. That sometimes they are liberating. And that maybe, my five-year ago-self would hate me, but I think my right-now-self would think my old me is a dumb naive *****.