text: I pulled into my sister's at about 6:15, only fifteen minutes late, unsure whether she would be ruffled by my proximity to timeliness. Usually if she tells me a time, she does so with the full understanding that I will be approximately forty eight minutes late, and gives me an earlier time of arrival than she actually expects me to show up at. She doesn't like it when I mess up her life hacks, even if it is as a result of trying to be a responsible adult. Her annoyance will be mitigated by the fact that I brought two boxes of wine with me, or maybe she would be irked because she was only expecting one. It's hard to tell what will set her off these days. I hope her new boyfriend will take the edge off a bit. I worry about her when she gets anxious like she has been recently. I decide to sit in the car for at least ten minutes, just in case, and recline my seat back so I can drink straight from the box. Everyone always expects me to bring a box of wine when they invite me. I am the box wine guy, ever since the ordeal with Mrs. Perot back in the 10th grade, which is actually a pretty funny story. One morning I spotted a box of wine just sitting under a tree in the park as me and Tommy were walking to school. He dared me to take it, and then said we would chug straight from it at my locker in between classes. By fourth period we were both completely blotto. I was in Mrs. Perot's English Lit class, and we were discussing The Old Man and the Sea, which I had actually read the summer before, and disliked immensely. While Jackie McKenzie was giving her usual brown-nosing spiel on the moral worldview which she believed the story was a metaphor for, some overeager hogwash about perseverance and natural law, I stood up and declared Hemingway to be a closet homosexual whose masculine prose was nothing more than a literary beard, then puked in Jenny Watson's hair and all over her cheerleading outfit. So that is why I will be 'that boxed wine guy' for the rest of my life. While I waited I turned the radio to the oldies station and played a game where I drank every time someone sang the word 'baby'. I do not recommend it. I ended up doing this for fifteen minutes and had finished half a box. I was feeling fully socially lubricated when I knocked on my sister Lacey's door. As soon as she opened it she could tell I was pretty well into my cups, and gave me a look of exasperation. "You're early." "I brought you a box and a half of wine," I said, holding the full one out to her, then let out long belch that somehow summoned a chunk of cinnamon roll I ate hours ago into the back of my throat. I lifted the box to wash it down. "Come inside and do that, you savage lush," she commanded. I followed her into the house and said hello to the other dinner guests, offering to hoist my box so they could wheeze my juice, but they all politely declined. Too polite for my taste. I hardly knew these people any more. We all grew up together, but then they actually went and grew up for real, and the fun machine took a shit and died. It used to be awesome that I was the boxed wine guy, but now they look at me like some kind of hopeless manchild, which is what they were doing right then. These fucking people with their hopes and dreams and unaffordable mortgages and credit card debt. "Where's the new guy?" I asked my sister. "Out back smoking with Paula." she replied. "Cigarette or joint?" "Dinner, you fuckin' manchild," she scolded. I am dying to see meet the dude that has my sister texting emojis, something she once claimed was the literary equivalent of pissing your name in the snow, but first I have a few pints of boxed wine to relieve my bladder of. I somehow get sucked into an article in a magazine that is sitting on the toilet that claims the KGB were responsible for having Malcolm X killed, which is complete and utter bullshit, but contains some really great illustrations with unintentionally hilarious captions beneath. I am staring at a picture of J. Edgar Hoover in a pencil skirt with a tennis racket and thinking that mainstream liberals have gotten out of control with this ironic neo-McCarthyist, anti-Soviet stuff - since we have plenty of corruption inside our own borders that is far more worrisome -when someone knocks on the door. "Go away, baitin'," I respond, but then am drawn out moments later by a familiar voice. One that should not be here. When I reach the living room my worst suspicion is confirmed. My sister is dating Geoff. We both act like we have never met, which is easier for me since I am expected to act drunk and stupid anyway. My sister introduces us and we shake hands. She explains how they met at the laundromat after he offered her a coupon for a free salad at Panera in exchange for using some of her soap. Everyone laughs at all the right parts of the story, but I can tell Geoff is faking it just as much as I am. Neither of us wants to be here in the same room with the other, it goes against every instinct of our kind. Werewolves are a strange bunch. Someone who might be your best friend on a full moon will be someone who you would never want to run into during the rest of the month. It's just hard to look into the eyes of a man whose asshole you have sniffed, and with whom you have tag teamed a German Shepherd on numerous occasions. It is almost unbearable to come to terms with the fact that such a beast is boning your little sister. Somehow we managed to get through the night without Lacey realizing anything was going on, mostly because I drank myself unconscious within an hour. Before I passed out Geoff and I managed to communicate the necessity of our predicament using nothing but facial expressions. A few days later my sister called, emotionally devastated, and told me Geoff had broken up with her the next day, citing some bullshit about an ex he still hadn't gotten over, but hoped to work things out with. I felt terrible, knowing I was part of the real reason, but I knew it had to be this way. They had only been dating for a few weeks, so it wouldn't be too hard on her. I showed up later with a box of wine and we watched all four Toxic Avenger films to help take her mind off the breakup. A week later Lacey called to tell me she had already met someone new, a Morrissey lookalike who sings in These Charming Men, a tribute to The Smiths. Immediately I found Geoff on Facebook and messaged him that he should give my sister another chance. There are worse people to be forced to spend Thanksgiving with than a guy who occasionally licks his own balls and once gave you fleas.