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May 5, 2003
My father is not one to remain silent and let half-muttered comments bounce off his wounded pride, especially when he’s been drinking. He got up to direct more comments at my mother’s back at the exact same time I had decided to excuse myself for a snack to escape the discussion’s ever-increasing volume. I tried slinking past him, but my right shoulder brushed his left arm, causing him to spill his beer onto his faded work overalls. He swiped at my head with his right hand before grumbling loudly “that stupid kid is going to be the death of me.”