pucker up, monkey

There are a lot of reasons why I decided to (almost) quit drinking.* Here are a couple I found in my inbox today:

The fuck? Not only do I not remember when I took these pictures, I also don’t remember why. Why did I decide I needed a record of this activity? And why am I kissing the purple monkey from my stuffed animal play? Since he was technically an employee of mine, does this count as sexual harassment? Look at the monkey’s expression in the first picture – he knows what’s coming, but he’s not very happy about it. Was I really that unaware of his feelings? Or did I just not care?

[I’m glad digital cameras weren’t around during my twenties. Purple stuffed monkeys were the least of my troubles. So maybe I’ve grown up just a little bit.]

* I say “almost” because I haven’t stopped completely. I still have a glass of wine with dinner once or twice a week. And the occasional scotch. I’m just not hitting it hard and heavy every night like I used to. And, man I feel better. My liver, she thanks me every day.


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