Aida Zabidi
How else will I know you're okay? 

I hate it when they drink. 

"I'm alright," they say. 

What if you're not? How do I know each time you get in your cars that any one of you will become another fatality, another statistic of road accidents? 

"I'll be alright. It's only a few drinks - I'm not even drunk." 

Such words, even when you've been trying to outdo each other about how many drinks you've had. Such confidence, the confidence born of youth, of the fact that you have tempted fate many times before without any repercussions, of foolhardiness. 

Sure, you may be Indian; you may be able to take your drinks; you may be Irish - you're all okay. 

 But how will I know you are?
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