![]() ![]() ![]() I saw not only looks of relief but also ones of deep knowing-we’d all experienced something close enough to that to empathize. I looked around the room at the faces of my other friends for a hint of the same reaction I felt, which was relief. ![]() We called a few friends to come over, and we sat in my little studio apartment smoking pot and drinking even more whiskey and cheap wine from the corner store, when my dear, broken-hearted friend announced to the group that she was pretty sure she was going through an “alcoholic phase.” Alcoholic phase. It seemed a reasonable solution to me at the time: to walk around the streets of San Francisco sipping Maker’s Mark to dull the specific pain of being rejected by someone she met on the internets who wasn’t good enough for her in the first place. It was early on a Saturday afternoon, and my friend was carrying a Solo cup full of whiskey because some man she’d met on OkCupid had broken her heart. Nearly a decade ago, about a year before I stopped drinking alcohol, a friend of mine showed up at my door. ![]()
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