Bah!

My Fellow Inebriates,

The last year at LBHQ has been like a country music song. My blog has deteriorated to a shadow of its former, pester-you-daily self, and our drinking has indeed subsided to the dull roar my parents had threatened it would. About a hundred beanie boos, including a frighteningly large owl, have invaded the house, leaving no quarter for bears. All our household electronics are on the fritz, including the entertainment room projector, and our inability to zone out in front of an action movie has turned my friend Scarybear (being at loose ends) into more of a threat than usual. And to top it off, Facebook deactivated my account because—get this—I’m not real.

Sometimes I stare into space all day; sometimes I collapse into a little crumpled, furry ball.

Which makes Valentine’s Day downright unwelcome, my fellow inebriates. Especially given that my girlfriend Dolly says I may never refer to her as that, even in the past tense. And so, for all my fellow misfits who have no liquor and no snuggles (again), here are a few pictures.

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V is for Valentine

My Fellow Inebriates,

Five-year-old Miss V was so delighted to receive a heart-shaped Kinder Egg box this morning that she threw a fit about not being allowed to eat the chocolate before school. Mum figured V’s class had a sugar frenzy planned in lieu of lunch and was therefore disinclined to deposit V at kindergarten prematurely overloaded with sugar. The kid was already up until 9:30 last night (“I can’t sleep, I tried for a whole minute”) and was already exhibiting hair-trigger temper.

This is exactly the type of unreasonably controlling parental crap Mum pulls on me. When I asked whether we could make raspberry martinis this morning, she didn’t even answer.

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It had taken me considerable courage to visit Martha Stewart’s website for this recipe, she being the second most terrifying entity I know.

Fluffy still wins.

Fluffy still wins.

Stealing onto her webpage is equivalent to nudging open the door of a haunted house. What a freaky ice queen Martha is, and my mum should realize it—if Martha ever saw Mum attempting to cook lemon bars she’d probably put a pickaxe in her head.

What is society’s problem with booze for breakfast? Is it related to Mum’s problem with Kinder Eggs before 9 a.m.? Why has Mum never, for example, popped the cork on some Chardonnay before walking the kids down the hill to school? What would happen?

“Dude,” she says. “Get some brain cells.”

Just for that, V and I are dedicating a special Valentine to our mother. (This photo has cracked V up since she was four; she requests it often.)

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We don’t really mean it. At least I don’t.

V…?