As the shadows made their way up the mountains of the Eastern Kentucky town of Hazard on a muggy, August Friday night, the four handsome boys, all of high school age, reached for a beer from the back of the shiny, black SUV.

Four hours later, as the EMT’s pulled the last of the four boys’ lifeless bodies out of the twisted heap of metal, four pairs of parents sat on their living room couches in their comfortable homes, completely unaware of the pain that would soon come their way.

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He unscrewed the cap and took a sip, which turned into a swig, which then turned into a skull. Drowning his sorrows in alcohol once again, it would always be this way, he could never change.

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All of the writers and singers and geniuses that were blessed enough to be born under the starsign of Capricorn were alcoholics with awful family lives and terrible human skills.
And since I am also a blessed Capricorn, who thinks she can write, sing, draw and paint, and I am so scared of a normal family, I think that I should start drinking, so that my dog can save me from myself when I get too caught up in these shenanigans.

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