Thanksgiving was tougher that I thought it would be

[DFW]

43. I must have the mirror image of that gene

I gag and convulse the second I taste alcohol in any drink, and always have ever since I was a small kid, and my parents allowed me to have a small sip of “what’s that you’re drinking Daddy? It smells strange!” I invariably hated it, no matter what it was. He said when I was old enough, I’d like it. Well, I’m not old enough, because I still hate it—ALL of it. Wine, beer, champagne, whisky, rum, gin—you could offer me a million dollars per glass, I’d choke before I could down two sips of any of them. Some people say they pity me because I’m missing out on so much. I wouldn’t know, and therefore never missed it.