Raising the shots - RtS the better edition

Chapter 1

The smell of alcohol was one that I, Zelda van goph the third could not go more than a day without or risk getting chafing. In fact, alcohol was an addiction for me, and I most likely needed to go to a licenced therapist instead of my friend, but I always ignore my mental health, because my daddy has issues and I use that as an excuse to avoid commitment.

Going to a (fancy french word here) Brasserie every single day had never been a problem. Alcohol was cheap, so therefore I could buy as much as I need to fuel my body, and it still would cost less than dismantling Brexit.

I sat, manspreading in a booth, sitting upright, keeping my back off the window as I negotiated world peace with a feather pen, occasionally typing something on my typewriter.

Obscenities raged in my head, as usual, and my furious writing raged along with it, cooperating with my brain and fingers. I could today, like I can every other day, thanks to France's alcohol culture.

"You're going to trash your 1868 typewriter if you keep having as many story ideas, character creation, and crippling self doubt as you do," the vagrant that this Brasserie houses, a close friend of mine, informs me.

I raised my eyes to the red-scalped fish, and then hulk smashed my hands onto the table. "Yeah, something like that," I replied softly.

"No escape from it, huh?" Mipha replied, pursing her fishy lips "Want me to try and pass myself off as the bartender and get another shot of vodka for you?"

"I'd prefer some cider, please," I replied, drawing a mustache with my feather pen on my wrist.

What was bothering me - more than my uncanny writing prowess - was that I had to move away. I was only here to say goodbye, and I couldn't wait to be away from my close friend, the stinky fish. But though she was a fish, and not a very pleasant smelling one, it still hurt to be moving away from my only friend. I didn't know how to say goodbye, and I didn't want to do it.

My father was forcing me out to another city. They'd force me to come pay their rent for them again - because you can't charge an old dog for rent, so you make your daughter pay, of course - and now they were changing their minds again and wanted to move me away? I was tempted to slip retirement home brochures around the house before I left.

That was something I could definitely cope with, sending my parents off to a retirement home, preferably one in another country. But moving away from cheap alcohol was something I couldn't cope with. Even though I hated living in that house. Hated my father for not letting me be a sugar baby...I couldn't stand the thought of not having my daily dose of spirits.

But my daddy had control issues, and had the last say for me, and I couldn't even argue.

... This is what I recieve I assume... for attempting to be an author... Allegedly, I must inherit their business, not pursue my fantasy actuality of alcoholic authorhood. He's attempting to educate me so I will return to his side ... But he can go bless his heart.

Bless his heart.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts as my cider was set in front of me. "Tnak you," I said through my bolée of cider, forcing myself to stand.

"There is no problem at hand," she replied, then grimaced. "Are you quitting this establishment already?"

"Yeah.... I... I need to get bread for my hangover tomorrow."

She nodded. "See you tomorrow."

I stroked my mustachioed wrist as I began to shake, and then I yeeted my eyes away from my friend. Mipha wasn't just my only friend, besides a Chablis Grand Cru of course, she was my best friend. Basically my non-intoxicating sister. "...as a matter of fact..." I hesitated as I felt bile rise in my throat and tears threaten to spill, but unhealthily, I shoved them down. I was aware of my ability of exercising self control.

"You won't."

"What?"

"I'm..." I gasped for air. "Moving..." I admitted, my voice dropping along with my heart.

Mipha's eyes started to reflect torrential waterfalls. "WhAt?"

I looked up at the ceiling.

"Why did you tell me now? I was about to get some cider for myself too," She asked, the pace of her voice increasing.

"Well as a matter of fact... I was only informed this morning and I... I just didn't know how to..."

The fish's watery hair had a torrential temper to match, and she was close to blowing. "Your parents can't-"

"Mipha," I interrupted, grabbing her hands. "They already have, and I cannot change that, neither can your fishy self." I sighed, shaking my head. "It's my fault, I drank all the alcohol in the house, argued with my father about joining star studded authorhood, vomited over his Gucci suits, dissed DaVinci and this is his retaliation... My repentance." I looked up at her. "I.... I must apolo-"

Mipha flopped forward and hugged me, nearly crashing my ribcage, and didn't let me finish apologizing, and almost caused me to throw up on her.

I appreciated the comfort of a fish's arms. I smiled and wrapped my large, bulky arm around her.

"It is a pleasure to me that are strong enough to have faith in your wants, I beg of you to not ask for forgiveness," she said, then whacked my head. "I would greatly appreciate you sending me an SMS the moment your parents quit nitpicking."

I smiled. "Anything for you, my fishy bestie," I said, then fixed my attention to Mipha's ruffled clothing. Uttering another farewell again felt... impossible. "See you around, Fifa." My elbow joints felt like 10kg of rice as I left the shop, and when I turned my ripped back to the building, the sorrow in my head shifted to fury.

                                                                                            ~*~

The consecutive days that followed seemed as if I was walking through a dream-filled Bavarois. The days felt fantastical, even though I knew they were bitter grudging reality. My mother's fake smiles, the blathering insistence that this was somewhat important, and my father's words as they left me to unpack in solitude, cemented in my mind that I could prove him wrong. That I would prove him wrong.

But as I hunkered in the middle of the small apartment, boxes stacked all around me, as if they had summoned me, I found myself only staring blankly at the walls. Where could I even start?

I was disinclined to discover the answer at the present moment.

I was unwilling to unpack.

I refused to write in this ugly ass room.

I required a distraction.

I needed a Blue Curaçao.

I imagined that this would be the beginning of it all, discovering a new Brasserie to get drunk and scribe my genius in. There was no doubt in my mind that my apartment was the most boring, uninspirational place I'd ever been in, even emptier than a certain president's brain.

Pretty - alcohol free for the moment - prison, more like.

I grasped onto my newfound determination and I left the full to the brim room, locking the door behind me, couldn't have anyone stealing my yet to be bought bread. I removed my phone from my pocket, and searched for the nearest coffee shop on Fi maps, and off I started on my quest.