“Have you been drinking?” I asked my twelve year old daughter as she came bounding through the door. “No!” she exclaimed, incredulously, with the slightest hint of a grin in the corner of her mouth. “Let me smell your breath,” I said, and leaned in as she blew into my face. I failed to detect the scent of alcohol, but couldn’t help think that the odor of Jim Beam on my own breath must’ve made me seem like a bit of a hypocrite, though whether she was even aware of this contradiction, I had no idea, and wasn’t about to inquire. “It’s late,” I said, “time to go to bed.” And, with that, she hustled to the bathroom to take a powerfully foul smelling shit, then ate some cold pizza and ran upstairs to her bedroom to fall asleep in her clothes. Her cacophonous snoring shook the house to its very frame.

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