The first thing I think about when I walk into an office party is harakiri. I hate forced social time. Your coworkers, much like your family, are not pickable pals. Usually, I can manage ten minutes of a birthday/holiday/last day party until I reach my breaking point. Then I think of an excuse to leave

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I was walking down the beautiful, white washed streets of my home in sunny, southern Spain when I saw two things that combined to bring back a long suppressed memory; a drunken father staggering along with his son in tow, and a dead cat under a parked car . See my dad was sometimes a dick, to put it mildly. He was a heavy drinker, with a penchant for terrorizing his son practical jokes.