Your special day can’t get any worse, you figure. Time to do something stupid.
You cautiously approach the crazy bottle lady.
She heard you were new in town. Yes, you reply. That’s cool, she says. She was new once too. She didn’t really know what to do with her life. Then she met some nice people in robes who gave her food and a place to stay and something to believe in but she’s not supposed to tell you about them. That’s okay, you say, you don’t want to know. She appreciates your non-prying-ness and declares you to be her best friend.
She takes another swig and goes off on a tangent about how she left the peas on her plate because peas are the worst fruit. She’s not even entirely sure they are a fruit. She says you can have them if you want, but you say you’re not hungry. You also point out she is still waving a knife at you. She apologizes, sometimes she just knifes people.
You look thirsty, she says. You should have some of this awesome wine. In fact, you have to have some, it’s just that good. You nervously try to explain that you are a recovering alcoholic and have the booze tolerance of an anorexic six-year-old, but your new friend insists you are just pussying out. Pussy pussy pussy. She asks again if you would like a drink.
Frankly, you would love a drink right now. Also she has a knife.