passages from a fictional memoir (part 1)

These are my memoirs. I've started typing at eleven past nine and thought I would go on until Friday with breaks of course for sleep, shower (shit shave and shampoo as my father called it), the afternoon in the library, and the evening with the zoology gang at St. Mary’s pub, but now it's two past one am (I've backtracked of course so I could write the first paragraph last, sort of like I got used to doing when I was sixteen, at the high school in warm new York, when writing a thesis) and I've reached the last significant scene in my life with only the width of the piece you hold in your hand (barely over the length of your nose if, like me, you enjoy smelling pages, especially in a book, the smooth texture against one’s nose and the edges scraping the stubble on your cheeks )--or, more likely, five jabs of the page-down key. God damn me, have I led a shrunken life? I lived every moment when it was present and it never felt sped up faster than my sister's or a stranger's. But now it does look rushed. Only a bit.
Oh hell, it was a fun trek. It had its moments, like my dad tossing my dog over the snow bank, after we had that blizzard that closed school for a week in the fifth grade. The terrier got his paws locked in the snow immediately and couldn't jump free. In the gallows, poor boy, panicked as he looked over our heads for the first time (my dad was five feet nine inches tall and I was on my way to surpass that, until I was the tallest in the Starch family from here to Ireland). The dog’s view past our snow-whitened hairs past the two cars, the boulders where I used to jump from into the arms of the birch, for that tiny Toto puppy would have awed him if he stopped thrashing.......