* Much of this won’t make sense to people not raised in Ireland

Just keep breathing in and out. Surely it’s not that hard. That guy two seats down. Yer man with all the muscles. He’s doing it. Surely it’s not too bad. Yer one over there. With the dark hair. Eating. Playing on her phone. She is too. And Bridie on her iMac. And the two oul wans yakin’ away. And Joe Cuddy with the specs tucking into his salad. Would you look at them all breathing away like there was no tomorrow. Mad yolks the lot of them. Y’ed swear it came naturally or something. Freaks.

“Look at me” they’d be saying, in their stuck up Southsider accents. Buncha wankers! And they are. The lot of them. The lot of you. Not really. I actually am never jealous of others. I’d love to be forty pounds lighter. I’d love not to be mentally ill. I’d love not to have heart disease. But I don’t get angry at people. Sometimes at the generic world, but even that is a rarity. I’m often not pissed at my own fucked up life. I acknowledge it’s fucked, that I’m fucked, and then I cry, drink, or fight the urges to do bad shit.

Still. There’s a whole new crop of gobshites who’ve sat down. IMac girl is still here. So is Joe Cuddy, but a friend of Joe’s came to join him. All the newbies are fuckin’ breathers too! I’m really quite astounded. And not only are Joe plus one breathing, they’re also talking. Multitasking at its finest. And they’re men! Here now. This is getting ridiculous!

I’ve group in 45 minutes. I think I’ll spend the time staring the fuckers out of it to see can I cop on to this breathing lark. Here…. Joe…. Give us a go of yer lap…

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