I have a special bottle of scotch I drink whenever I go visit my parents.  I hate scotch.  But when I’m home, I need it.

It’s because my parents’ house has turned into a shrine to how ugly I once was.

There is my senior year of high school class picture.  I was growing my hair long, protesting, I suppose, the peace and prosperity of the mid-nineties.  The picture, however, was taken during that phase where your hair is neither long, nor short.  It was just a giant triangle on my head.  This picture should be relegated to deep within a closet, but there it is, on top of the television, in the middle of the house.

Or the picture of me taken on the first day of seventh grade, when MC Hammer was popular, and I decided it would be a good idea to wear my Skidz pants.  Skidz.  You remember those pants.  The ones that were baggy in the middle that allowed Hammer to do the typewriter?    Yeah, that’s quite a way to make a great impression on the first day of school-  dress like a rapper who’s current song on the radio is how “You’ve got to pray just to make it today.”

My wife was looking through stacks of damning pictures, saying things like “look how cute you were.”  If your significant other says that while looking at old pictures, what they’re really saying is you’re lucky you made it out alive.

These old pictures serve a purpose: to repulse you away from your parents’ house.    It’s a healthy reminder of how you looked when you lived under their roof, and to do whatever it takes never to live there again.

And most importantly, always have scotch hidden somewhere.

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