Pause Before You Send

Recently, I had a weird experience. I was talking with an old friend, Susan (not an alcoholic), from New York on Facebook about how we met. We had both been on a trip to England after high school in 1980, called “Drama in Britain.” And yes, it was drama—mainly because I was there. I was doing my thing that I would do: becoming best friends with you for two or three days and then starting to hate you and telling all your secrets to the people I had been character-assassinating to you for the last three days—and then of course, wondering why everyone hated me. Poor me. And of course I was drinking, cuz that’s what I do when you hate me and I feel bad. I’d act like a jerk, polish up my alibis and then go get drunk.