St. Patrick's Day
Dear Dad, I guess I now have an excuse to really go and get trashed on St. Patrick's Day if I want to. It used to be because we thought that we were of some Irish descent, so I could legitimately celebrate the day while simultaneously fucking with people's minds. (Sidebar: I know you don't like cursing, and you thought that it showed a lack of intelligence. Meanwhile, studies have shown that people who curse are actually smarter. You've now probably seen just how much I drop the F-bomb on a regular basis. I mean, I'm a Jersey girl. Mom curses a lot too when we talk to each other. You know we've earned it, and you know why.) Now, I can use St. Patrick's Day as a preparation for the day after. March 18th. Your birthday. Tomorrow you would have turned 68 years old. On one hand, it feels legitimately old, but it also feels incredibly young. Like I said in my last letter, this is another stop on the temporal stations of the cross. I cried on the morning