Back of the F.P.

I have almost moved out of my old house in Austin. For ten weeks, I have studiously ignored the enormous sign in the neighbouring church which advertises the local Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. I made it. Ten weeks wet. Ten weeks off the wagon. Ten weeks without a meeting. Do I get a sticker or something? It’s almost the weekend, and I have collected no less than five bottles half-filled with margarita ingredients from my old house. I think I deserve a drink.

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