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21.05 - 01:15
Support Beats Addiction, My Mom Would Say
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I’d wait for my mother to fall asleep. A bit past midnight and in between the silence, I would sneak my way out of the room, shot glass in hand.
We lived behind a bakery — my mother’s third attempt at a business — and in that small shop we sold various breads and pastries.
Among which had a special ingredient, at least special enough for me: Rum. I’d sit at the bottom of the shelf where we’d keep stocks of bottled inventories and pour myself an almost full shot.
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