#alcohol abuse /

[1343-40]

insane to me to be in love with a guy with the same vices as your drunken dead gambler of a father. does the smell of whiskey when he drapes an arm around your shoulder remind you of pony tracks, buck. does your stomach churn at the increasing frequency with which you see a flash of that flask. are you terrified of looking into his drunken eyes one day and seeing a stranger there

[somebodytolove31]

High to Death

[dragonbee259]

Important

TW: Child & Alcohol Abuse

A mutual of mine, @wootzietoozee, needs to get away from their mother. She is extremely abusive to them in several ways—which I will not disclose here—and Wootzie desperately needs to escape.

This is their video in which they go into more detail about their situation

This is the link to their GoFundMe

The goal is $7,000, but the GoFundMe has only reached $83 so far. Please share this on any and all platforms with any tags you deem necessary for this to reach as many people as possible.

[quecksilvereyes]

oh, sister, I am sorry. your eyes are sunken and your skin is bruised. your lips are chapped, your nailbeds bitten raw. your husband's hand on your waist is a ghost's touch held by the band on your left ring finger and I-

I am dead.

I got on the train, Su. Nevermind your tears, nevermind the plea you could not shape with words, nevermind your fingers on the pulse point of my wrist. "stay", you'd said, as you have always done, dictionary in hand and baby teeth yet lodged in your jaw. "don't go where i cannot."

I step through a wardrobe and you follow, damned be reason. I slay a wolf and you follow, I cling to the little ones and you follow, I am crowned and you follow, I am-

I go past a lamp post, and you follow, damned be dread. I go to a train station and you follow, trembling hands and tender heart. I go, and I go, and I go, and you follow. Sun of my skies. Light of my life.

I go. you stop.

are we too old for stories, now? ten-and-four and ten-and-three, budding bodies and steel bones, we are cast from our home. i hold the little ones until i drown in them. you grip your skirts until no iron can press the shape of your palms from them. and you have ever been, cruelly reasonable and logically callous.

say you, glass shard eyes and rouge-red lips: we are english. we are children. she thinks she has found a magical land in the upstairs wardrobe.

say I, trembling hands and coiling guts: we are narnian. we are monarchs. if she's not mad and she's not lying, then logically she must be telling the truth.

my sister Susan, beautiful as folk tales are and twice as sharp, did you intend every invitation you took for me to twist the knife a godly animal once thrust into my guts? perhaps it was the way your eyes turned blue, or the sound of your laughter losing its bells. perhaps it was just my trembling fingers at the back of your legs, drawing stocking lines where no stockings had ever lain.

the line came out shaking, and you rubbed it off until your skin cried red. the hem of your dress still dripped wet when you left that day, turning on heels too narrow for you to walk in.

do you remember? it took you days to come home, and mother wailed for all of them. you crawled into my bed that night, as you did when we were parents to our little ones, those terrible months. your head on my shoulder, your breath in my ear, I held you until morning.

your mouth in my throat, eyes heavy with sleep, tongue heavy with champagne: we are here now. we must make the best of it. he cannot have all our lives, and all our joys. i wish you would laugh again.

doesn't little lucy, shrieking mouth and tumbling legs, laugh enough for us all?

lucy's manic. if she didn't laugh she'd cry.

i think sometimes, in the parts of my guts that are still a schoolboy, and are mean and cruel to match, that the alcohol makes you softer than the daylight ever could. i do not tell you.

i press my lips to your forehead. i wrap my arms around you. the year between us rings heavy, and when I get up in the morning, you do not follow.

I tried, Su. I did. I applied for university, I saw that girl with that smile. with those eyes. I let you take sections from the paper before I ever touched it, I held the little ones in my arms, and I made coffee in the morning. I sat all my exams.

I smiled when the little ones came back smelling of home.

Aslan's wounds, did I try. but-

I have ever been a thing made for stories. brave the way knights are, bloody knuckles and buckling pride. a horse between my calves, a sword in my hands.

I think, sometimes, that I was born for my sword, for the hollow ringing of my heart when I first held it. a part of me, even then, ten-and-three and soaked to the bone.

such bravery is not made for real world boys and real world taunts. there is a map, I think, from the summits of my knuckles to the jaws of every boy who ever looked at me and bared his teeth.

I am sovereign. I am the skies for your sun to burn in.

I am made wrong, for this england, and I cannot take this life you want. I belong, I think, into myths and legend, the star-studded shards of our home.

so I went on the train, Susan. so I died, and I named what you have chosen. so I banned you from their scorning mouths. so you grip your husband's hand, realest of us all, and you cry. you do not follow.

Forgive me.

[avvail]

Hero is an alcoholic and the villain finds the hero on the sidewalk with a bottle of alcohol in his hand, and then the Hero starts to vent to the villain about his issues

“Hero.”

The villain hadn’t meant for such thickness to creep into their voice, but it had. Seeing the hero, such a prized little monument in their city, squeezed in an alleyway with an entire bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand, might do that to anyone.

They shouldn’t have thought anything of it.

Maybe it was a kick to keep him going through the night.

Maybe he would leap to his feet and engage the villain in another breath taking battle. But even in the dim light, they see the unnatural flush on his cheeks. They see the unfocused, glazed look in his eye.

It even takes him far too long to register that his name had been called.

The whiskey bottle clanks against the concrete as he sets it down, but doesn’t unfasten his fingers from the slim neck.

“Villain.”

His voice is shaking. They can sense a slurred drawl creeping effortlessly through each syllable. The villain steps closer. They can almost smell it.

“What are you doing, Hero?”

He languidly nudges the half empty whiskey, as if the answer was obvious.

“Drinking,” he slurs. The villain’s brow pinches.

“Why?”

The hero gulps down another swig. They almost see it hit him, his eyes popping open wearily, before his head lolls lazily so his chin is almost touching his chest. He sucks in a wet breath.

“Why does anyone do anything?” He grumpily groans, struggling to twist his tongue around his own words. He looks as though he barely knows what he’s saying. “Jus’...leave me alone.”

The villain grimaces. They stop in front of them with a pinched brow etched onto their face, and they reach down to pry the bottle from their hands. Surprisingly, he has enough to strength to rip it away. Some liquid sloshes onto the pavement with a wet smack.

“Oi,” he loudly snaps. “That’s mine. Hands off.”

“I think you’ve had enough,” the villain sternly tells him. They can feel this resonating anger consuming their very being. They don’t know why seeing the hero in this state is getting them hot under the collar. Maybe it’s because the hero is doing it to himself.

The only person who should be bringing him pain and misery, was them. Not a bottle of Jameson.

“I’ve only had three bottles,” he huffs, barely stuttering out the words. The villain’s eyebrows raise.

“Three?”

“I like Irish whiskey,” the hero hums.

The villain resists the urge to curse under their breath. They hadn’t ever once thought of the hero as an idiot until now. They yank the bottle from his slipping grip with more force this time, and it pops right out of his hand. They already have an arm lay over his collarbone to prevent him from moving when he attempts to lurch forward in a hasty effort to take it back.

“Hey!” He snaps, barely fighting him off. “S’mine.”

“Why are you drinking yourself to death?”

They don’t ask because they care. The villain hasn’t ever cared; they just don’t want the hero to be easy pickings while he’s out here in this state. He puts up a valiant fight for a drunkard.

“Why do you care?” He hisses, and the villain can smell the warm wood and nutty undertones radiating from the bottle. They make a point of tipping it all out onto the pavement.

The hero fights harder this time, a ragged groan tearing from their throat.

“Fuck you,” he growls, clumsy fingers trying to latch onto their shirt. “Jus’...fuckin’, ruining everything—”

The villain can see tears in his glassy eyes. They wonder whether it’s because he just poured an expensive bottle of Jameson on the floor, but they find their voice softening regardless. Not because they care.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” they ask.

The hero grits his teeth, a soft little huff choking in his throat. It takes mere seconds before the tears begin to roll down their cheeks.

“Twenty two people died on that bridge,” he forces out, sucking in a sharp breath. “It was my fucking fault. Mine.”

They look at them gently.

“Hero, that was months ago,” they whisper. “You know that wasn’t your fault.”

The villain can feel him visibly shaking from under their arm, and they decide to slowly remove it from his collarbone. The hero sways, and he’s clearly fighting off a huge wave of drunken dizziness that slams into him.

“I’m a fucking joke,” he sobs. “I need it.”

“You don’t need to do this,” the villain murmurs. They try to ignore the returning thickness in their throat. “You’re not a joke.”

“Leave me alone,” he groans, head falling limply onto their shoulder. They stiffen. “Please.”

They don’t like the way the hero begs. It isn’t nearly as fun as they had imagined; none of this, seeing the hero broken and miserable, was as fun as they had imagined. They gently cradle him into their side, and slowly heft him off the ground. It takes him a while to even find his feet.

“Come on, Hero,” the villain hums, voice strained. “I’m taking you home.”

He quietly sobs to himself as they do, and the villain realises how much he must have been struggling for months by himself. They take him back home, but it isn’t because they care. Even when they put him in some clean clothes, and make him sip at some water, making sure he lies on his side so he doesn’t throw up.

When the hero is asleep, they stay. But not because they care.

[izzyspussy]

okay. incoming.

what if 2x4 izzy was drinking so much not JUST to treat his physical pain, not JUST to dull the grief of a permanently disabling injury, not JUST because he was having an identity crisis, not JUST as an extended passive suicide attempt lingering after the first attempt failed, but ALSO. because he could feel himself falling out of love with ed.

now that the evil that they went through together that's was its own kind of horrible affirmation of devotion, now that ed isn't a dead man izzy can mourn the memory of for the rest of his own sad life, now that ed is just a man again - not a god, not a devil, not a ghost... now. NOW after keeping that fire going through all of that shit, now izzy is falling out of love with him. and he doesn't want to feel it happen.

so that's part of why he drinks almost to the grave, and later it's why his "what did he say about me" line is so... Like That. i mean, i love as much as the next guy, but real talk even if you think he can start to bounce back on ed so much so quickly that kind of stuttering cute infatuation type of vibe is still kind of a weird step backwards. he was faking it.

not for stede's benefit, or got ed's if it got back to him, or even to self-comfort with the familiarity of it. he was faking it hoping he could make himself learn how again, like sword play on one leg. if he can just remind himself, if he can just remember, if he can just keep up the habit well enough, maybe he'll stay in love with ed.

[zerosketchdump]

Not from the AU.

This was from a really great RP that I, unfortunately, flaked out on, because RL stuff going on at the time drained my time and ability to write.

In the rp Pip had just turned 21, had just about the shittiest birthday imaginable, and went to go booze it up and do angry karaoke about it. He met Henrietta there who'd had an even worse night and she took him home. They were supposed to patch each other up and commiserate about their shitty family lives. It was supposed to be some really cute/sad hurt comfort rp, but it didn't get that far T-T

Now I forever have a soft spot for Pip/Henrietta

Still really like this adult design for him and really kind of prefer his scars here, but I had to simplify them somewhat for the comic, just for my own sanity.

[friendship-ditch]

Whumptober Day 14 - Survivors Guilt (Alt.)

Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader ✼

Summary: After a harsh battle in Bree, Aragorn blames himself for the lost lives.

Warnings/Notes: Lil alcohol abuse and sad Aragorn

Word Count: 1201

  “How many of those drinks do you plan on downing?” You watched in amazement as Aragorn finished his sixth flagon.

  The man beside you, your ranger partner since the two of you both first started out, was not a heavy drinker. At best he had a few ciders and even then he felt it terribly in the morning. Now here he is finishing these drinks off like it was a job and he was being timed.

  Aragorn wiped his mouth with a grimace. Alcohol’s effects on him were slow but once the hill steeped downward there was hardly a second in between his sober and utterly inebriated states. It hadn’t kicked in yet but you had a feeling that time was coming.

  “As many as I can.” He muttered gruffly before waving to the bartender for another. His fingers eagerly reached for the new glass, about to lift it to his lips when your hand grabbed his arm.

  “Take it easy…” You murmured. You expected him to comply, not to suddenly drink as much of the ale as he could. When he finished the whole thing in a few gulps you slapped him on the arm. “What is wrong with you?!”

  You were quite right. The alcohol's effects were beginning to seep in.

  Aragorn stared at you through bleary eyes for a moment, twitching a little. Then he turned away. “I need to forget.” He mumbled. “Just for a while…”

  You tugged his arm again but he refused to look at you. Even your gentle slap to his arm didn’t draw him out of the strange trance he had fallen into, eyes boring a hole into the wooden counter of the bar. Finally you shoved him with your shoulder, snapping him out of it a little.

  “Forget what? What’s going on with you?” You frowned, moving your hand to rest on his back. 

  Earlier today the rangers had taken down a large army of orcs in Bree. You all had arrived halfway through the battle and saved the remaining citizens of the small town. It was Aragorn’s idea to go to the Prancing Pony Tavern afterwards and celebrate victory, but now it was as if he wasn’t even there beside you, more of a shell than a man.

  “We should have gotten here earlier.” Aragorn finally whispered. You could hardly hear him over the loud banter of the bar, but his words clicked in your ears after a few seconds.

  Your thumb rubbed in soft circles against his cloak. “There was nothing we could have done, Aragorn.”

  “There was… If we had run faster.. Traveled lighter… didn’t stop for that stupid, stupid rainstorm, we could have saved so many more lives, y/n…” He rasped, voice starting to become a little incoherent as both the grief and alcohol numbed his mouth, filling it with ash and fluff. “Everyone that died… those poor citizens. They were unprepared and… and we were supposed to save them.” Aragorn was struggling to catch his breath now, fingers digging into your arm as his eyes stung with tears. “We were supposed to save them but we didn’t.”

  You thought back to the attack.

  The orcs were vicious and merciless, killing any citizen they could get their hands on, from the town guards to the young volunteers who had seen far too few winters and could hardly wield a sword. Out on the field you had to make the choice between saving a boy, hardly an adult, or Aragorn. Regardless to say, as much as it hurt, you did in fact choose the latter. You knew Aragorn would be horrified with your choice and angry with you but you couldn’t bear the thought of losing your best friend. 

  He never confronted you on the incident but it was clear now that it was weighing him down heavily. He was bordering on the edge of some sort of panic attack or melt down, air going everywhere but his lungs as his head spun. The alcohol in his system was not helping, making him too unsteady to stand and leave himself.

  So you did the next best thing.

  You dragged him to his feet and–half carrying him–brought him outside.

  The second the cold air hit your skin he broke into sobs in your arms. The weight of the pain and tears made him surprisingly heavy, even for you. So you dragged him once more until the two of you were tucked behind some barrels, just letting him cry into your arms.

  “It should have been me.” Aragorn wept into your chest, fingers clutching your clothing so tightly he was almost ripping it with ragged nails, torn from aiding in burying the dead. His sobs grew more animalistic and raw. Aragorn had an awful habit of punching walls or such when he was distraught like this and his fists were shaking from the force of restraint, trying desperately not to punch you on accident.

  You eventually nudged him in a way that set his energy free and he pounded into the ground a few times before his fists met your torso. It didn’t really hurt. You held him through the whole thing, accepting whatever misplaced throws and globs of tears that fell from his face. What else could you do?

  When the alcohol fully kicked in and all Aragorn could get out was soft whimpers and whines, now sort of rocking back and forth in your arms, you held him tighter. You gently tucked his face into the crook of your neck, raking your fingers through his hair in soothing motions, fingers grazing his scalp. The motion soothed Aragon slightly but it was your words that did the true deed.

  “It is not your fault Aragorn.” You murmured softly to him, feeling him gasp for breath against your skin. “I would always save you… no matter what. You do not need to wish to have given your life for these strangers… what’s done is done. Love what you still have, not mourn what you could’ve.”

  Aragorn whimpered. “But…”

  “But nothing. We saved Bree. Yes, lives were lost, but lives always are.” You whispered. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner… and I’m sorry so many died, but beating yourself up over it will not bring them back.”

  Shakily, Aragorn rubbed his red face. Your words, though blunt, were true, he couldn’t deny that. 

  He slowly pulled his face and looked up at you through tear cladden eyes. “Sorry…” He whispered, sounding more like a lost puppy than a ranger.”

  You chuckled a little and shook your head, planting a gentle kiss to the top of his. “Don’t be. Just… let’s just sit here for a while, alright?”

  “...alright.” Aragorn whispered.

  If there was one thing you were not looking forward to, it was dragging a very drunk Aragorn back into the tavern and putting him to bed… as well as what would follow in the morning. For now, you were content with sitting here, curled up behind some barrels with him in your arms. And he seemed to feel the same as the last of his pain faded with a heavy sigh, his head laying back down on your shoulder.

[whumpypepsigal]

Silent Night (2023): “Help me.”

[cyberwhumper]

 “Drinking to forget?” the bartender says, eyebrow raised, as they slide another shot across the sticky laminate counter. The place is enough of a shithole that they don’t bat an eye at the lines he cut right there on the bartop or what he’s smoking. Probably not the worst thing they’ve seen all day. Besides, as long as he’s paying, who cares what a dirty mutt does to himself?

        He makes a noncommittal little noise, trying to smile and managing a grimace. “Sure.” He picks up the glass, tipping it in a mock-salute that spills a third of it down his fingers. “To forgetting.”

        He wants to forget. God, he really does. He’s doing a pretty bang-up job of it so far, he thinks. His brain feels like a sponge, these days; not in the sense of like, absorbency, but in the sense of being wrung the fuck out and full of holes. So many little holes. Little chunks of him, whoever or whatever him even is anymore, poked out of his mind and scattered to the winds, left behind in abandoned warehouses and dingy club bathrooms and back alleys and shallow graves.

        Fuck.

        He downs the shot and takes a long drag off the pen, feeling the prickle of toxic vapors curling around in those holes in his mind, turning everything soft and milky, cotton candy pale. The liquor burns, cheap enough to strip paint, but he likes that. He likes the hurt. It gives him something to focus on, something that isn’t all the emptiness and the horrible weight of everything he’s done, just simple, clean, purifying pain. Another line hoovers up his nose, a little too harsh, sending a clot of blood and mucus down the back of his throat to choke him up a little. Gross.

        He does it to himself, though. He deserves it. A way to wrest a little bit of control back from all the grasping fingers and open mouths that he feels on him every time he closes his eyes too long. Fuck that. He can do it better. He can punish himself, poison himself, put himself back in the ground over and over again. That’s what he’s good for. All those little holes. Needs to fill them. Fill them…

        “Top me up again, chief?” he slurs. His skin feels hot and cold all over, his hand lagging in front of his eyes as he slides over the credits. The bartender gives him a look, but the cash is right, and he doesn’t seem like he’s in any state to start anything. They pour him another.

        “Forget,” he mumbles, tracing his finger around the rim of the shot glass. “Fuck me, man. I forgot…what I was even tryin’ to forget.” He giggles, rubbing knuckles against one of his tusks. Good. He’s doing good. It’s all drizzling away from him, everything going syrupy and dim, the holes getting bigger and bigger until he sees more blankness than reality, shovelfuls of grave dirt dropping on top of him, cold and powdery-wet.

        He doesn’t remember how to get home.

        He doesn’t remember if he has a home.

        Fuck. Finally. He doesn’t even remember his own name.

[Fic by the exceptionally talented @bxtterflystxtches , who I have the honor of collaborating with for this event. Please show him some love!]

[OC INDEX]

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[air--so--sweet]

CW: Discussions of alcoholism, unhealthy relationships with alcohol, alcohol abuse and a brief mention of drug abuse and addiction.

I think I want to write a better, more fleshed out post on this with more examples but the Umbrellas relationship to alcohol is very interesting to me. Five and Klaus are both clearly alcoholics (Five is just a high functioning one, though it could be argued Klaus is shown to be high finctioning also in season 3) but I think Allison might be too. Or she at least abuses alcohol, she chooses to drink with Klaus, despite the fact he's clearly relapsing in season 2, because her own life is also going to shit at the same time, and in season 3 she's drinking enough to be carrying a hip flask around with her.

But also, while we do see some objection initially in season 2, none of the siblings seen that bothered or concerned by Klaus' drinking in season 3. Or they at least seem less concerned about him drinking than they were about him taking other drugs and being high in season 1. And alcohol addiction has just as much of a capacity for damage and destruction as another other substance. I don't think this is bad writing either, I think their attitudes mirror the attitudes of a lot of society in general. Also, as I mentioned already, Klaus seems to be functioning at level that's pretty standard for him when not drunk, so his drinking probably seems like less of a problem than it actually is. Hell, if you had never watched the rest of the show, you might not realise Klaus is an alcoholic based on season 3 or only catch it because of him drinking the bottles of mouthwash when cleaning the rooms with Stan.

[1d-trashcan]

I know the fandom is in complete shambles and we're all struggling to come to terms with things so here's a free penny for my thoughts.

I will always advocate for the victim, however during the Johnny/Amber trial, Johnny Depp's legal team actually had me believing him for a minute.

I want you to keep that trial in mind.

A televised trial with unprecedented social media coverage and memes that had a lot of us looking past the hard facts that Ambers lawyers presented. He is, without a shadow of a doubt, an abuser. There's an abundance of evidence to support that fact. Yet we chose to believe that Amber was lying. It was a devastating loss for victims of abuse across the globe.

If Liam chose to sue Maya for defemation, I don't doubt that his lawyers would use a similar strategy since Liam is so hugely popular. Yes, he's been getting a huge chunk of hatred since 2022, but one look at the trending topics on Twitter will show you that there's still an immense amount of support lingering, and in the American justice system that might actually be enough for Maya to be convicted of defamation. Just because she did not actively record the abuse in real time. That cannot be allowed to happen again.

I do, however, want to stress how horrific of an illness addiction really is. It turns individuals in active addiction into downright monsters. This does not take away from Maya's experiences, or the experiences of the fans that have come forward. It is simply an explanation.

I am a huge advocate for addicts who choose to seek treatment, choose to be confronted with their past behaviour. True recovery constitutes a lot more than just putting the drink/drugs down. To continue to criticise individuals after they have successfully gone through treatment is extremely harmful.

Studies have shown that 40-60% of addiction patients will relapse. For some of those individuals, it will just be a drink. For others it's a few months, even years of drinking or using in a way that seems sustainable, until the switch is inevitably flicked. For some, the relapse will lead to suicide.

I will continue to condemn Liam's actions, but hope that he finds it in himself to go back to treatment and truly commit to it this time.

Please remember that Liam is a 31 year old man, not the 19 year old with a flashing toothbrush on a twitcam.

We need to stop enabling him.

[screaming-sparrow]

i forgave everybody, i gave up, i got drunk. (captain jack harkness and his relationship with alcohol)

[green--tea-owo]

me on my way to choose one of my coping mechanisms after the slightest inconvenience:

[aita-blorbos]

(🐻 <- so i can find it later)

AITA for not being there for my son?

(AU stuff. cw for some dated language, alcoholism, and covering up child murder)

So I (M90) slept with my (M, hopefully deceased) business partner back in the late 60s, which resulted in a surprise child, as he was one of those transsexuals. This happened twice before he and his wife adopted a little boy- but that's neither here nor there. His eldest, who I'll call Eggs (M 50-ish) grew up just knowing me as a family friend/uncle, and my own two kids were like a niece and nephew to him.

Neither me or his father told him or his siblings (including my own children) the truth. I don't know if he even knows today.

But Eggs ended up going to prison for manslaughter- along with three of his other friends- and while he was doing his time, five children went missing at the establishment his father and I owned. I was the one who found them. And of course- I didn't want the police or health inspectors on our asses- so I buried the bodies out somewhere upstate.

It was only until later I found out his father had done it. Not just five children, though. He had killed my own daughter back in the late 70s.

I left the company after that and purposefully avoided Eggs- he was the spitting image of his father, I couldn't fucking stand to look at him.

Eventually both his father and later, Eggs, blip off my radar completely. I found his father at some point, the fucking bastard, left him to rot away in his own filth- never found Eggs.

Until last night.

I had gone down to the local bar in town (I'd been going there for longer than I can remember.) and I see a tall looking fellow sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender. Now- I'm not the social type- so I sat far away- but it didn't take too long for me to realize that- well- that's my son. He looked like he was fucking rotting, but I could tell by the accent (his father was an immigrant from London)

He really reminded me of his father- we used to go to that bar and drink until we'd get cut off, so we'd go and drink at home- and it was just a sorry sight.

He was only there for a few more minutes until this curly haired boy (he used to work for me) came and had to practically walk him out.

I told my sister about it- she really dug into me about it- insisting I was the asshole- that I had already abandoned one of my sons, but to ignore the other was fucked up of me.

So, TL;DR, i had a son with a man, kept it a secret, and refused to speak to him after i found out his father was a murderer- only to run into him decades later drinking himself into a stupor. My sister thinks I'm the asshole, but I don't think I am.

EDIT: I feel like it's important to mention that Eggs and the boy are married. They get on fine with the community. Plus, I doubt he would've been coherent enough to actually register if I told him anything or not.

[fromblack2blue]