@Will2Power@snappler for me, its an ancient, well-healed wound. What are you gonna do, right?
I'm not quite so old that adoption is off the table, and we have the money to spend, so who knows, right? Life comes at you fast. Hell, somebody should take this house when we're gone.
Me, I'm a drunk. I have been since I was 25, or so, something like that. The first time firewater touched my lips I was 22 years old, in Hidalgo, Mexico, taking shots of homemade sugar cane moonshine with a bunch of country ass hombres. I can recollect them strapping a Kevlar vest to a tree and Tio Hernán pulling out a revolver to test and see if it was really bullet proof. Wound up getting carried back to the car to drag my fatass home because la caña me chingué. I flew down to Mexico City on a whim as a young ass man to spend a couple of weeks with a co-worker and her family. Pre 9/11, what a fucking trip. We were close, like family. Hell her kids called me uncle.
Back then, in the 90s, illegals working at restaurants was a fucking punchline, everybody knew it and nobody cared, except me. I learned to speak gutter Mexican Spanish from those women. I learned the value of your in-laws from those women. Hell I had a crush on a married woman for the first time back then. Your early 20s are some formative years for most people, and I had a bit of an unusual sort of influence in that time, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. Surrounded by milfs and jealous men, that's what life really is like.
My father was a drunk, for most of my young and adult life. My mother was a drunk up until she put herself in a box from it. From their parents, three of the four of them were drunks too. My mother's father loved nothing more than taking a case of beer and sitting in the park feeding the ducks. My father's father loved nothing more than drowning worms and drifting on a Wisconsin lake with a beer buzz. His wife would be tipping a bottle of wine waiting for him to get home from the lake with dinner, hopefully. There's no real mystery why I turned to the bottle. Family tradition.
Nowadays, I live in a small house, on a big plot of land, in one of the poorest area codes of the US, 700 miles from where I grew up. Forty acres, a one lane road, me and mine, and not much else. Uncle PG, the wife, her old man, two dogs, and a whole lot of trees. I work a 9-5, white collar, remote, and I make good money. Same for her. Two good jobs makes us upper class around these parts.
I enjoy keeping house. I wash the dishes, and cook, and keep order, because I like it and that's what gives me peace. In between that, I work, and I drink, and there ain't nobody there to stop me on either account. This is my little hunk of redneck paradise.
I am who and what I am. But who cares, right? That's what you're asking. It doesn't matter, is what I would tell you. My story is what it is, and even if nobody cares, I am still me, for all the good and bad that that is. I'm me, I'm here, and nobody can take that away.
@vriska@mischievoustomato tomato gets points from me for being earnest. He reminds me a little bit of me, where there's no "this is social media so I must perform" façade, what you see is what you get, in other words.
@RustyCrab@azure@cassidyclown okay I have 80 apps total, but the number I actually use regularly fits on one 5x5 home screen. GrapheneOS, for the sake of the argument, so some of those apps are "the stock one is shit so I need something else" mostly Fossify apps