#192

Brian the Postboy had a bumper delivery this morning. From inside a swollen, puffed up face I watched him turn into every door, except mine, popping Christmas cards through letterboxes and waving and squeeking “The Royal Mail wishes you a Very Merry Christmas, hee hee!” Forming my fingers into a gun, I lined him up, and just as he stepped smiling off the Garbo Tranny's doorstep, I fired and took the top of his head clean off.

Through anger it's impossible to think correctly. Decisions always feel right and good but are reflexive and wrong. In that way being angry is akin to being in love. I am angry. I don't know what with, but I am. Maybe I am angry with everything? Maybe every move I've made over these last few months have all been small mistakes leading up to a much larger whole? If so, people like Brian, Little Dick Tracy and Mr Bartholemew are not innocent. Each of them gatecrashed my existence and helped to run my life off course.

This afternoon Mother called. When I saw her name light up on the incoming call screen I wanted so badly not to answer. It is more difficult than ever to speak to her when I know that on my end of the line I'm completely breaking down. I feel too vulnerable and open, and to allow her anywhere near when I am feel like that seems incestuous. Probably I am just terrified that she will try to help... that she will offer up her arms and that I may fall into them. That thought really does terrify me, and if it were ever to happen I'd be to the dogs anyway.

As every year mum asked/told me: “You do know it's Christmas, don't you Dear?” And as every year she then invited me to hers for the day. I was no less predictable, declining her offer by saying: “No, I don't celebrate Christmas”. I don't celebrate it. That's true. But in making a point of not celebrating it I suppose I kind of do. So this year I will have my very own private little Christmas. As the world gets together and cars pull up or leave full of families, I'll sit here listening, pretending that I'm just as much a part of it as everybody else.

6 comments:

  1. As I wait to move my Turkey to a simmering oven, I am thinking of you poor Tristram ... and sending you my love, as I think you need a big hug. I hope that fat little posty slips in the ice and breaks his neck ..Merry Christmas xx

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  2. merry christmas, tristy...anxiously waiting to see what the new year will bring...oxoxo.

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  3. Oh mothers.

    The neon green Jesus above my bed that she periodically grapped off the wall and battered me with...

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  4. 'Probably I am just terrified that she will try to help...'

    Exactly.

    I'm terrified of being 'helped'.

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  5. Ruby: Oh, Brian isn't fat... if he wasn't Brian he'd be quite beautiful really. But he is Brian, and so everything thta is beautiful about him I hate even more. He is a repulsive shit slurper! X

    Stacy: Merry Christmas to you too... 2011 should be a good one... I 've got high hopes. X

    Mrs Winthrope: I don't think anyone with their own island full of retards needs any help. I suppose Google maps are banned from your territory? Wouldn't do to have accidental photo evidence on your nephew. X

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  6. Well the whole island isn't full of retards.

    I just choose to surround myself by them.

    They do talk a lot more sense than intelligent people...

    Google Maps will NEVER find us.

    Thick Blue Glasses has made sure of that.

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