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The Sparky is drunk
May. 10th, 2008 12:57 amVery drunk
Very very very drunk
Indeed one would go so far as to say extremely drunk.
As in the room is spinning and sparky, the extremely skilled typist (I pride myself on my typing skills), just took 10 minutes to type that sentence
The reason for the extreme sparky inebriation?
Not unsuitable friends. Not foolishness on the part of the Sparky. No. Something far more insidious.
Parents.
See, while I have criticised my parents muchly I have not conveyed just how incredible they are. They rock.
I love them dearly, not just as being the people who brought me life, but as the best parents a man can have. They rock muchly. My memories of the first time I was drunk? My mother held my hair out of the way while my 14 year old self was sick and the next morning my father poured me a hair of the dog and commiserated with my sufferings (and advised me how to avoid such in future - EVEN THOUGH he was the one pouring the drinks for my drunken, 14 year old self).
I never had a teenaged rebellious phase. Ever. Because anything reasonable my parents let me do. Anything unreasonable my parents would discuss with me to show why I shouldn’t do it. They were right even when I didn’t follow my advice. And they were there when I ignored it to laugh at my misfortune and help me out of it with a simple, friendly gesture of “I told you so” but only ever a single statement, never a continued nag (even when this involved paying bail to the nice policemen)
When I came out they celebrated that I felt so free to tell them and set up guard as angry pit pulls against any who would try to harm me. They had a party to celebrate the fact I had come out to them. When I brought beloved home they embraced him as a third son., including mum protesting if he dared to leave the house without giving her a kiss and a hug like me and my brother did (mum was never shy about demanding appropriate affection from her offspring and any family that didn’t involve lots of hugs were damaged and broken in her eyes)
Tonight? They had a barbeque. This could be better surmised as “Roman orgy” from the sheer amount of food and drink available. Indeed when I declared I’d had enough, padre was quick with another drink (“you have room for one more, you don’t want to make me drink alone?”) and, despite him being 5’2” and even smaller than me he still managed to drink all of us into nigh unconsciousness (which was his aim - there is no point in a party if people can walk straight afterwards).
I could not move from the sheer amount I have eaten. I cannot stand from the sheer amount I have drunk (and more alcohol forced on me!). And I am crippled by the various comedy DVDs my parents had collected (including Meet the Spartans, a hilarious DVD which had the added bonus of including hot, half naked guys that mother mine was happy to comment on with me for mutual admiration of the hotness).
Life is good, and my parents better
Very very very drunk
Indeed one would go so far as to say extremely drunk.
As in the room is spinning and sparky, the extremely skilled typist (I pride myself on my typing skills), just took 10 minutes to type that sentence
The reason for the extreme sparky inebriation?
Not unsuitable friends. Not foolishness on the part of the Sparky. No. Something far more insidious.
Parents.
See, while I have criticised my parents muchly I have not conveyed just how incredible they are. They rock.
I love them dearly, not just as being the people who brought me life, but as the best parents a man can have. They rock muchly. My memories of the first time I was drunk? My mother held my hair out of the way while my 14 year old self was sick and the next morning my father poured me a hair of the dog and commiserated with my sufferings (and advised me how to avoid such in future - EVEN THOUGH he was the one pouring the drinks for my drunken, 14 year old self).
I never had a teenaged rebellious phase. Ever. Because anything reasonable my parents let me do. Anything unreasonable my parents would discuss with me to show why I shouldn’t do it. They were right even when I didn’t follow my advice. And they were there when I ignored it to laugh at my misfortune and help me out of it with a simple, friendly gesture of “I told you so” but only ever a single statement, never a continued nag (even when this involved paying bail to the nice policemen)
When I came out they celebrated that I felt so free to tell them and set up guard as angry pit pulls against any who would try to harm me. They had a party to celebrate the fact I had come out to them. When I brought beloved home they embraced him as a third son., including mum protesting if he dared to leave the house without giving her a kiss and a hug like me and my brother did (mum was never shy about demanding appropriate affection from her offspring and any family that didn’t involve lots of hugs were damaged and broken in her eyes)
Tonight? They had a barbeque. This could be better surmised as “Roman orgy” from the sheer amount of food and drink available. Indeed when I declared I’d had enough, padre was quick with another drink (“you have room for one more, you don’t want to make me drink alone?”) and, despite him being 5’2” and even smaller than me he still managed to drink all of us into nigh unconsciousness (which was his aim - there is no point in a party if people can walk straight afterwards).
I could not move from the sheer amount I have eaten. I cannot stand from the sheer amount I have drunk (and more alcohol forced on me!). And I am crippled by the various comedy DVDs my parents had collected (including Meet the Spartans, a hilarious DVD which had the added bonus of including hot, half naked guys that mother mine was happy to comment on with me for mutual admiration of the hotness).
Life is good, and my parents better