Abby isn't mine. ER isn't mine. Blondie isn't mine.
She snuck into the kitchen in the dark of the night. It was nine thirty. Everyone else was asleep. And she stood on a chair, because she was still rather short. And she pulled the bottle down. Still standing on the chair, she uncapped it. It smelled nice. Orange liquor. She drank a swallow or two, not knowing how much strength it would have, then put on the cap and put the bottle back and slid the chair back into place. She walked back to her bedroom and closed the door and put on a record. 'Blondie' begins to play, with the scathing words of a New York goddess. The pounding drums, the firey guitars, the dance that the keyboardist's fingers must be doing on the instrument, and on top of it all, icing on a very good cake, the voice. Not skilled, but filled with that attitude. The song was somehow so much better than she remembered it. She liked 'X Offender' now, more than she had before. She stood up and danced a little, stumbling now and then. The world was a little bit softer, and she focused on the music.
That was her first drink.
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