Yours Sincerely, Pato Dooley

You hear that? That’s the sound of my morning beer. I have six hours of rehearsal up and I need to start feeling Irish, so I’m getting an early start. Pato can have a drink or two, probably a cigarette too. He stopped smoking pot when he was his brother’s age. He’s never been in love, although he’s been with a few women. That hasn’t always gone too well either, but that’s for a whole bunch of reasons.

He holds a whole load of burdens in his heart, which keeps him grounded to these ideas. The work in the rain and ol’ digs and the perpetual boredom and monotony of the same work every day that never will get any better because he’s an Irish dog. He is the scum beneath their feet and would be glad to be rid, except he’s a hell of a work and since the can get away with paying him nothing, it’s a fairly smart business choice.

He had a dream last night. Or was it me? I can’t be sure, but I saw you in the dream. You were walking by me and I looked over and tried to yell. You looked at me, but nothing on your face changed. You looked for a moment and then looked away and then walked away. I had almost forgot that I had that dream. Pato reminded me of it.

Either way, I’ve got this beer to finish and a shower to take and some teeth to brush and some cigarette to smoke. I’ll see you later.


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