I had some shit to deal with earlier that set me back an hour. I wasn’t expecting to wake up on a Monday morning to my mother passed out cold in the kitchen with vomit in her hair and a half-drunk bottle of merlot trapped in the vice-like grip of her cold hand. She normally remains lucid long enough to make it up the stairs and collapse in her bedroom. I couldn’t leave for school until I’d helped her wash the vomit out of her hair and tuck her into bed. On her side, obviously. Don’t want her choking on her own vomit while my history teacher drones on about the Philadelphia convention. So, Fred
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