My 30th birthday sucked:

2003: my “mom” dropped off my birthday card — on the way to getting her HIV test results.

You see, around a month before, my idiot, heroin-addict half-brother had decided that it would be a great idea to “hook up” with a junkie slut he picked up at (can you guess where?)  The METHADONE CLINIC.

So (being a chivalrous gentleman) he decided to bring her back to my Mom’s house (where he lived at the time — and, as far as I know — STILL lives), whereupon they decided to fuck/shoot up on heroin.

The junkie psychopath left for awhile (I never did find out exactly why).  When he returned, he found Junkie-slut unresponsive, and apparently not breathing.

So, the junkie dumb-ass proceeded to do what any junkie dumb-ass would do in that situation: stumble downstairs, and wake Mommy.

At the time, my Mom was certified in CPR.  So, she was essentially duty-bound to try to resuscitate anybody (including an anonymous junkie-whore).  My “mom” managed to get some level of “response” from the woman — who promptly vomited causing my mother to get a mouthful of bloody vomit.

(the woman had evidently seisured, and bit her tongue).

It is only at this point where the Junkie dickhead bothers to tell Mom that the drug-slut in question is HIV POSITIVE.

TL;DR: dead junkie whore in the upstairs bedroom.  2 years of being tested for HIV, for my Mom.  New rule: no more junkie sluts in the house.  (Hint: this seriously curtained my idiot, heroin-addict half-brother’s ability to “date”).

I Completely lost any respect for both of them, at that point.

I have never recovered any of it.

Any sane person would have kicked the junkie psychopath out of the house, and allowed it to die in the gutter.  Instead, the junkie psychopath was enabled/mollycoddled for an additional decade, whereupon it proceeded to accuse my wife and I of attempted murder, and physically attack me in my own mother’s driveway.

Y’know something?   The above is very literally the closest thing I have to a “good” family story.

 

 

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