Just one drink away
MY father was a most interesting man. Had he lived, most likely we would be good friends, but as he died shortly before his 44th birthday in 1961, that wasn't to be. At the time of his death, we were anything but friends. I was a ward of the juvenile court, living in foster homes. Prior to the I was alone and scared, living in a juvenile jail dormitory because a domestic court judge decided it was in everyone's best interest that I no longer live at home with my parents. I was just 16 years old and already believed that it was "me against the world." I couldn't depend upon any adult, or anyone for that matter, who would love me and always be there when times got rough.
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