A Day in the Life
2002-12-03 04:03:57 (UTC)

Being Irish

Well, if anyone actually reads this, I'm back. But
remember, this ain't for you, it's for me. To get things off
my chest. On with the show.
Everyone says they have Irish in them. But there's a
difference in having Irish in you and living Irish. My
family lives it. Did you ever see the episode of The
Simpsons where Groundskeeper Willie was with
Homer, Mr. Burns, and Professor Frink looking for the
Lochness Monster and he caught up with his parents?
Well, they didn't even say more than two words to each
other. They showed no emotions. Now I know that
Willie is Scottish, but it's the same thing. In my family,
the men never talk (they let the women do the talking)
and they try to be alone. When my great aunt died, my
Great uncle just sat in a room refusing to talk to
anyone. I mean I know he was upset, but I knew it was
because he was just like every male in my family. My
father never talks. I never learned anything from him. My
friends taught me how to throw a ball. I learned to
shave at school (which was a catholic school), where
facial hair wasn't in the dress code and I refused to
shave. I never got a sex talk, or birds and the bees talk,
whatever you call it. He gave me his first dating advice
this last May, when he said "take her to dinner and hold
the door for her" or something like that. Super. I learned
more from Adam Sandler for Pete's sake. I never knew
my grandfather, but everyone says my dad is just like
him. No surprise there. I don't want to be this way, but
it's all I know. My friends wonder why I never say
anything. "N", the girl I bashed the last two sittings, said
one of my problems is that I shut people out. No one
showed me anything different. Maybe when I have a
son, I can change things, but I guess you can't change
what you are. Out.

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