You know, seminal American author John Cheever and I have a lot in common. He needed to drink a fifth of scotch before he had the courage to utter a word to another human being, and so do I. Much like Cheever, I'm completely blotto by 10 a.m. because of a deep, withering fear that my family will eventually discover my bisexuality. And, to top it all off, we were both born in Wollaston, Massachusetts, if you can believe it! But just because he's one of history's finest short story writers, Cheever's epic benders are considered delightful, whereas I've just got a "serious problem with alcohol."

What a bunch of horseshit.

You wouldn't believe some of the outlandish and totally inappropriate things my drunkenness has caused me to do. Dark, crazy stuff. But guess what? I didn't write Falconer, so I'm a disgrace to everyone who loves me. It's discriminatory. Cheever abandons his wife and children for months at a time to drink himself near to death, and he's discussed joyfully in college lit courses. I do the same exact thing, and I'm denied visitation rights.