Growing up with alcoholic as a father was hard. Not only hard, but embarrassing. Not only embarrassing, but terrifying. It was so up and down. Sometimes he was fun and silly and loving and nice. Those times were the best because he was easy to get along with. Other times he was mean and rude and cocky and evil. After his 8th or 9th beer his demeanor would change and we would walk on eggshells to ensure that he would be a happy drunk.
October 9th, 2010 @7:01 PM
(Length of voicemail- 1:26)
Hey sweetheart. How are you? Still haven’t been able to get a hold of Stephanie. You promised me that, well I just want to talk to her, good god o’Molly, you know. Uhhh, if you’re not doing nothing and you wanna come and pick me up take me up to where your husband is playing the piano, I’m game. I could use a night out. But you have to make sure I don’t get too drunk. I love you sweetheart, God bless you and I think of you every day you and your husband and pray for you. Believe it or not I know deep down in my heart that you’re good good people. You should know that as well about me. Alright hunny, call me if you can that’d be cool, alright bye bye.
