I am now an alcoholic
One day my mom comes home from wherever the hell she was, having left me in the care of the father figure. The father figure, an idiot drunk not ready to care for children but somehow completely unable to fathom proper condom use, had been entertaining friends. I was one years old, my dad was nineteen or twenty. Not a mature nineteen or twenty mind you. My mom comes home, relieved to find that everything appears okay. The father figure and his idiot friends are, I dunno, probably watching porno or playing Pong or something, laughing and drinking. That's fine, as I am curled up in my crib, dead asleep, clutching my baby bottle with unusual infant strength. My mom notices that the contents of the bottle do not look like my usual milk. She manages to wrestle it away from me, unscrews the top, and sniffs it. Meanwhile, the father figure and his gang of retards are dead quiet, having lost their buzz with the arrival of my mom. My mom explodes when she realizes that I had been drugged with a bottle full of vodka and orange juice. Ah, my first screwdriver! Obviously, it was far from my last.

Since that time in history, I've had pot smoke blown in my face from my grandfather (I was two) and my mom gave me my first winecooler when I was seven. She thought my drunken antics were so funny that she allowed me another. When I started coming home from high school drunk, and had taken to removing all my school books from my backpack in order to fit a gallon bottle of grocery-brand vodka, my mom didn't have a word to say about it.
(BrainSurgerysFun, Sat 18 Aug 2007, 20:36, Reply)