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A Letter Home
by Vincent Barry

. . . Well, truth be towl, I’m self-medicatin’. Oh, I know, I know—blah, blah, blah ’bout self-medicatin’, naw nade ter lecture. But de tin’ av so’tiz Oi nade—waaat? t’airteen, is it dey say Oi nade ter luk, yer nu, loike a genuine American? Ay, Oi tink so ’tiz waaat’ oi nade—t’airteen dental implants. Figure conservatively—waaat? 4k a crack? Fifty two t'ousan' USD? But dat’s not why I’m self-medicating, though reason enoof so'tiz.  ’S de pain in me upper lef jaw. Unrelentin’ withoyt Tylenol and an Advil chaser for—waaat? six 'ours relief? ’S why Oi don’t sleep.’S why, too, I called me dentist dis mornin’. Who, btw, Oi jist saw —well, a week, cock an' 'en days ago or so, for, y’know, a cleanin’ an’ such, and boasted, “Not a one,” to ’er, “Any problems?,” then sped aff in me borrowed SUV, as if on the lam wi’ a “Hot damn! six months—six glorious months till—” and smacked the dashboard, which, ter be sure, lef a palm bruise that Quitch, naw doubt, ’ill inquire ’bout.Yer man Quitch is de skin guy I see at 8:10 in the a.m. Hmm? Why not eight? Eight-t’airty ? Even eight fifteen? Gran' quesshun. I asked, believe me: “Why 8:10?” So, to you, as to me, from the achromic, telephonic, metronomic honeyed vice on the other end: “Eight twenty?,” to which, giving up de ghost, I mouthed with, t'be sure, melanoma in mind, “Eight-ten’ll be gran’,” and just in time at dat before it went dead, the bloody line. As ’ill mine as well ,’cuz the mouth joint is achin’ and I shouldn’t be cunctatin’ wi’ me self-medicatin’, ’cept ter add de ’ope an' wish dat al' is gran’ witcha as so ’tiz wi’ me. 
Slán agus beannacht.