The guy who’s been selling me alcohol since I was fifteen just started carding me. He always says, “Hello sweetheart.” Then, “There you go beautiful (insert real name here).” (That’s right, my real name isn’t Sovereign. Although the irony of the sexiness of my real name is an endless sense of amusement for my friends.)
Is that enough parenthetical?
Sometimes now he says, “You drink so much. Maybe too much.”
What’s funny is that for that year when I was hooked on meth, he never once questioned me during my weekly trip to his liquor store to buy a bubbler to smoke my shit (that’s tweaker speak for crystal methamphetamine, a popular recreational drug of choice for women and queers) out of. Never. Said. Shit.