I miss my dad. There, I said it. That son of a bitch died six years ago to this very day. His name was Patrick Dundee. He was was forty-six years old. He was a CPA. A historian. A writer. A loving husband. A fighter. I was his boy. He loved me more than his own life. He told me this almost every night up until the day he died. He died in his home, in his favorite chair. This was what he wanted. My mother and sister and I never moved him. We held his wake right there in our living room. This was a typical Irish thing to do. All of my family came to pay their respects. We cried. We laughed. We drank. I took two hits of ecstasy. I couldn't deal with the pain. The sadness overtook me.
Over the past six years I've been fuckin shit up. I drink. Heavily. I've struggled with drugs. I lost many friends because of this. I can't carry a relationship. I was kicked out of St. Peter's College. My dad graduated from this school, by the way. I was recently told that my father would puke if he saw what his son has become. Maybe he would. I don't know. I just don't know.