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And weren't you always the first to tell me how my father really wasn't such a bad guy either, was just over-protective? But then you never had the fortune of seeing him purple in the face, relief dripping scotch-stinky sweat onto my skin. I hate to disappoint relief you, but he didn't look real honorable then. I wish I could get relief this ex-Catholic, ex-hippie code of yours, though. Wish I understood why sometime in the sixties you turned your back on a martyr God who causes the hearts of old women in babushkas to race with longing for a purity they will never reach, in favor of a sacrificed, ancient god of pleasure who makes the minds of intellectuals race with images of a frenzy they will never dare attain. And was it a token of love that you not only wished me suffering, illness, betrayals, humiliations, but offered them by your own hand?
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