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  • Canyon Bob stood in the intersection of the sidewalk and his driveway, blocking my path, swaying so much I thought he might tumble. He was exhaling distillery fumes. He was making a pass at me.

    Even if I wasn't happily married, I wouldn't be interested in Canyon Bob as a partner in any capacity. But I did find him interesting. Fascinating, really, and essentially harmless, I'd determined, after many such encounters.

    "Herman called me an alcoholic," he slurred. Herman was the latest in a long series of roommates he'd taken in to pay his rent for him. "Says I'm a damned alcoholic. I ain't no alcoholic!"

    "No?" I asked, raising my eyebrows slightly, wondering how he'd defend his statement.

    "No!" He leaned closer, his eyes wild, his smile verging toward a frightening leer. "No! Alcoholics go to meetings. I'm just a drunk."

    Me, I'm an overeater. I'm on a food plan, so I'm sort of like a dry drunk. I have my abstinence, but perhaps not my sobriety. I don't go to meetings. I'm one drink or one Hostess Twinkie away from being a "drunk." I like to distance myself somewhat from Canyon Bob, but in some ways, I'm not that different from him. Not as different as I’d like to think.

    1)Deb, I am not trying to draw any similarities here.
    2)I wrote this story before the previous one about why I stopped going to meetings, but didn't have an image for it. I had to paint one.
    3)Image by me of Canyon Bob in front of his house holding my arm to keep me from leaving as he tells me his stories. Captive audience. Done in watercolor oil pastels and acrylics. By me.
    4)I hate Hostess Twinkies and mean that in symbolic way.
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