My Cardboard Balcony

That Old Drunk by Belinda Roddie Loosen up your limbs with a drink or four. Steins up! Glasses full! Down crystalline shots to even up the mental score. You're not one to back down from a stupid challenge, not until you're expelling your intestines into the nearest cold, porcelain bowl. Steins down! Glasses drained! Your poor wife pulls your hair back and sings to you as your edible regrets of the day come pouring out in a stream-of-conscious Faulkner flow. Then it's back to the bar to write a check. Go home, and a bottle's waiting for you. Drink half of it and go to sleep. Sweet dreams! You won't remember how much she loves you when you wake up the next evening.

I traveled the world for seven years with only a wad of cash in my back pocket and a backpack full of photographs and writing journals. I stayed in hostels and tiny homes free of charge because the owners pitied me and thought I would stray into the abyss if they didn't reach out a hand. I was always known as the wayward daughter - unable to behave or remain in one place for very long. I tried to walk to the edge of the world, but there's no such thing, of course, so all I did was move in circles.