1939, a courthouse in Baltimore. Liz B. stands there crying her heart out, not from sorrow, but because she finally trapped a man into marriage. She spent nineteen years as a "stoned alcoholic," starting at twelve with rice wine and moving to bathtub booze sold for forty cents a pitcher. She describes a life of wreckage: third-degree burns from frying frozen chicken, sleeping on park benches three blocks from home, and a husband who eventually told her to put the Bible down because she was too much of a hypocrite.
She admits she was "ignorant about life," giving away a leopard-skin coat in a drunken haze only to want it back once she was sober. After a final collapse that left her praying to die in a basement, she found a Higher Power and the rooms of AA. Now, with over five decades of sobriety, she warns that while the monkey is off her back, the circus is still going on.
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