Broken beer bottles could write my life story. Daddy was never quite sober enough to clean up the shards, or rather to not break them to begin with. Seventeen and bouncing off the walls to break free, I was too cautious to be crazy and never quite pretty enough to be called beautiful.
I hid the bruises as best I could. Alcohol abuse often carries with it the physical variety. Punches thrown after downing three cold ones are promptly forgiven with the morning apology.