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You’re reading me.  Oh my God I  feel you.  Wow.  Are you shitting me?  I can’t believe this shit I see you.  Holy freaking shit.  Ok.  Ok.  I’m cool be cool.  Um.  yeah.  Now this is real.  I’m real.  I thought about this.  I was just thinking about this.  No way dude.  I wanted you to read me and here you are.  Wow.  This shit will knock you into the middle of next week.  So.  Right before I thought about what it would be like when you read about my dad dying and think about me how sad, I had an argument with myself. The me on the left was thinking about how damn glad I am to be the hell out of there.  I can’t take any more crying, mostly without tears. Uncle Barney leaping in to take care of everything, sending me off with five bucks for pork steaks and wanting change back.  Wow.  I snuck some of that sherry from Tunney’s which was super gross, give me a minute.  I’m still blown away.  Anyway.  Then the other me on the right, my left when I’m looking at you was thinking about the fight.  Cinco de Mayo, I missed it.  Floyd Mayweather Jr and Miguel Cotto.  Mayweather is the best in the world.  He’s got the brains for it even after getting head butted by Victor Ortiz.  Accurate.  Best technical fighter.  Brutal too, going to jail for beating up his girlfriend.  But they want him to fight Cotto first.  Money talks then he walks.  Mayweather wants it, but Cotto wants it more.  He’s a bleeder, so he puts on a good show, and he’s hot for it.  He had a point to prove against Margarito’s plaster hand wraps and he’s back baby.  And he’s at peace and peaceful is more dangerous than angry in a fight.  I should know.  Dad was perfectly calm when he belted me over that picture of naked Lady Gaga.  I wonder if my friends will read this too?  See it online somewhere maybe.  See I’m in mourning, dressed for a funeral.  Did you see that guy just now with the red flower in his mouth?  Smiling at that drunk he was listening to.  See what he was wearing?  Buttonholes on my shirt are too big.  Keep slipping open.  God it was brutal, the whole thing from dad drunk to his grey face with that big fly crawling on it.  The big coffin.  Why was that?  That last night.  Dad was wasted he looked so short, shouting loud for his boots so he could go out, get more drunk.  He could have knocked out Mayweather that night easy.  Now I’ll never see him again.  His drunk red face.  Death.  Dad is dead.  He tried to talk to me, lips moving couldn’t get it out past his teeth, but I heard him tell me to be a god son to mom.  You’re a good kid, be a good son to your mother.  Tried to say more.  Poor dad.  He was my dad.  He went to Father Conroy for confession so I hope he’s in purgatory now.  My father.  Mr. Patrick Dignam.