When a recovering alcoholic goes to the liquor store for boxes to pack his shit in to move from one place to another. As demonstrated in this snippet from an email I got:
Every time I move I have to chuckle at how the liquor store is such my friend when it comes to supplying boxes, another one of life’s silly paradoxymorons. I told Kat that moving was an absolute paradise compared to the hell some of the people heading in and out of that liquor store to purchase “holiday treats” may be enduring, and that I wouldn’t trade my blessings for anything!
Ain’t that the truth!
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