Welcome to another post lacking the debauchery that would make it enjoyable. If you found this by mistake, let me apologize in advance for what will, surely, disappoint you in the end. This time I will be talking about my dead uncle, a drunk, violent idiot who wasn't relevant in my upbringing at all, but still managed to tell me enough things that made me think of him like a crazed asshole, But now, looking back, I realize that he was right about a lot. But before telling you the story about what he said, let me tell you how we met.
When I had around 10 or 11 years in this world I saw things differently. My parents had managed to fool me into thinking I was special, but they were educating me so well that I was beginning to see that I wasn't. One day I was at my grandmother's house (I spent a lot of time there because my parents worked too hard) and this tall man that smelled kind of sugar with a hint of gasoline came in half stumbling and called her. When my grandmother saw him she called me into the kitchen and kicked him out. I never knew what they spoke about, but I can guess it wasn't nice because my grandmother came back with her face red and with a scary look in her eyes. When I asked her who he was she told me "I'm sorry sweetie, that's your uncle". That was the first time I saw him, the first time I learned I had another uncle and the first time my grandmother scared me.
A lot of years later I was walking around the neighbor when I saw him. Of course, I tried to hide from him since my last impression of him was of the man who made my grandmother mad, but when he saw me sneaking away he chuckled mockingly and told me "when you want to escape from a dangerous situation, never turn your back on it. What do you think would happen if I ran after you? By the time you realized I'm moving, I would've gotten to you. Never turn your back out of fear." I never knew if he remembered me from all those years before, if he was being nice or an asshole, or even if he was telling me or telling himself. But those were the first words of my drunk uncle to me. I still kept going away from him of course, but I did so looking back (to make sure he didn't jumped at me) but all I saw was this sickly looking man who was tired. Maybe too tired.
A few months later I saw him again, he was sitting on a lounge chair that he threw in front of his house. I found that weird since up until that moment all the adults I have met were always busy with something, yet he was simply there, sitting without a care in the world. I was curious by this new breed of adult so I went closer and asked him what he was doing. He looked at me annoyed and then told me, almost mumbling "I'm waiting till I can walk again, so that I can go inside without killing myself in the stairs". I laughed thinking that he was an idiot, since there were only two steps on the "stairs", but still I sat down next to him. After a few rude comments of me being in the way of his enjoyment he decided to tell me about how he used to smuggle rum to Florida (I don't know if it's true) and decided to tell me the story of how he met the love of his life (absolutely not his ex wife).
It was a long story of mostly made up bullshit about running from a drug distributor for a few months and then killing him with the help of a girl who he left because she wasn't useful anymore, but the story ended like this: "...and I regretted not having her anymore, and while regretting not having her I married hastily to the first girl I met afterwards which I also regret, and while regretting marrying that bitch I never worked hard enough to get more money which I regret now because I'm poor, and because I regret being poor I drink to forget which is killing me. So never regret anything. If you can fix it do it, if you can't fuck it." From there our interactions were less rational and more about he telling me how fucked up the world is. Around a year after that he learned he got cirrhosis and kept drinking while saying "I'm fucked up anyway, why stop to live more years while being sick?" to people who disapproved.
In the end the he died how he lived: with a bottle of rum in his hand while laying on the floor. Not an heroic ending, not even a nice "he died on his sleep". To tell you the truth I wouldn't be surprised if he chocked on his own vomit. But at least he was honest to himself and, while being a disgusting adult who deserved no respect from anyone, he at least was right in a few things. Even if you don't agree with the selection of quotes I have used for this story, at least know that one thing he said stand true without doubt. When I asked why he drank rum instead of beer since it's cheaper he answered: "because if I'm going to kill myself, my dignity wouldn't allow me to do it with horse piss".
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