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January 30, 2009
I'm not right sure if this should go here or on tomorrow.

In 1977 or 1978, December 22 or 23, after my father had been on some typical tear, this time about the pork being undercooked, we all went to bed (though maybe we didn't sleep all that much).

2 am I heard him. He said, more or less, I'm having a heart attack. Fuck it hurts!

My mother got him in the car and drove him to the hospital, down through some December storm. She beat on his chest. "Don't die, you fucker!"

Meanwhile, I was hoping he'd die.