It's like a fucking 1950 morality drama. All I need is a hat, five o'clock shadow, and a dirty suit. Father: What do you want? Me: Me, Pop? Nothing, is it so odd to have your son visit you? Father: At eleven at night? Me: Sure, Pop. You know you how much I think about you Father: Well , I'm going to bed. Me: Ahh, Pop....I don't suppose you have something, I could borrow. Father: Hmmm. Me: Not much father, just five- no six hundred. Father: Six hundred dollars! You stupid kid, gambling again. Me: Come on Pop, :tongue: Seriously though. The thing I hate about my vices is that they hurt other people, you know. I mean it's fine for me to drink too much - better than cutting up my neck or walking into traffic- but I always feel guilty about how I make other people feel. Sometimes I feel it would better off to just end it; people are more forgiving of suicides when they're done under the influence of something.