So I’m sitting here hyper focusing on how I’d rather be gouging my eyeballs out with rusty spoons whilst gargling glass shards and battery acid. It’s a pleasant thought, only because soon, very soon, I will be expected to yet again visit the head narcissist in my life, I mean she who let me play with dolls, I mean my mother. These wild thoughts visit only because I need to psych myself up and find a happy place. That’s right, it’s the holidays again. Yipee…

Fuck I hate the holidays. I wish I could cryogenically freeze my mother-fucking self from the day after Halloween until New Years shittin’ Eve. Perhaps I could be awoken on Thanksgiving, given a spoonful of smashed taters, turkey, stuffing and that bean casserole that should be fucking disgusting but isn’t, and then be put directly back into my frigid fucking nap. That’d be sweeter than a pair of 34b’s dipped in honey. Man I love tits. And honey.

Why do I hate the holidays you ask? Well, since you can’t mind your own fucking business, I’ll tell you. It’s because a certain part of my family makes me want to go to Afghanistan, find some Taliban bunker, and offer to be their hostage, and then, after 6 months of beatings, torture, and probably rape (as they are angry, homophobic… homosexuals), take a fifty caliber round to the back of my head. Man, that’d be awesome. That female family figurehead called mother has a special way of making me feel this way. Ugh. Having to listen to her endless bullshit makes me understand why my father chose to contract terminal cancer and die within 6 short weeks. When offered the choice, he was probably like: “Hmmm… let’s see… spend one more fucking holiday season with that thing I married or die in my own shit and piss? Death sounds good. Thank you, god I don’t believe in.” I’m so jealous of my dad.

Why do I hate my mother so? Because she’s one of these. “She who let me play with dolls” fits the full blown narcissitic personality disorder spectrum. When I was shitting my pants at four years old, it was horrifying. When I was holding my dick while rewinding the VCR at 14, it was surprising. Now, when I’m documenting my life story on the internets at thirty… in my thirties, it’s downright annoying. And anger inducing. Hollowdays at my house are enraging. They are uninspiring shit fests, kind of like toddler christmas pageants… sure they’re entertaining to watch if you don’t have a vested fucking interest, but if you do it’s disastrous. It’s god damnably embarassing. The kids’ heads should be stepped on for epic failure after epic fucking failure.

Lemme give you a taste of my helliday weekend. I was up there last weekend for Skanksgiving. I drove all the way to northwestern, Wisconsin. If you’ve never been to that lame brain shit-hole, I’ll fill you in later (and the town I lived in specifically). Just rest assured that it is hands down the worst area/town in the whole of this fucking world. Darfur is more welcoming. I don’t exaggerate. It is. Live there for a month and you’ll understand the mechanics of redneck Wisconsin. So I arrived all ready for T-day dinner. When I walked in I asked “she who let me play with dolls” how she was doing and she replied: “Not good. Your grandma is going to the hospital. She doesn’t know who she is. Blah, blah, blahditty fucking blah.” I tuned her out after 15 words. You think I’m an asshole? Maybe I am, but what I am NOT is a glutton for punishment. You don’t understand. This bitch has cried wolf since I was fucking four. It’s always something. Some fucking drama always visits her to monopolize everybody’s fucking time and every topic of conversation. I haven’t had one single phone conversation in nearly a decade where she hasn’t mentioned some fucking “problem” she has. I rarely answer the phone anymore. When I was 10 her “problems” made me sad. When I’m thirty s… in my thirties, it merely interferes with my dinner. It’s that simple. Fuck you ma. As for your mother? She’s a cunt. She irritated me at best my whole life. The bitch can sleep in the bed of shit she made. She wasn’t a warm fuzzy grandma who baked cookies with me. She cooked human remains. I’m sure of it. Her tongue is sandpaper. Her skin is speckled with shards of glass that shred my flesh when she touches me. Her tears are acid. Her words fucking venom in my ears. I actually can’t wait until she breathes her last. The world shall breathe easier. When I had to hug her frail, bony body on our last visit, it made my skin crawl. The smell of wretched old people makes me wish for death. I hate this creature because she fucked up MY life by teaching her mother how to be a narcissist. I hate you grandma. You can lick my asshole. I promise not to wipe for a week’s worth of shits.

I know I should feel sorry for my mother as she was a victim, but I can’t. Why? Because I realized shit was fucked up at five, and although my journey out of the cesspool was slow, I got there. My mother? Fuck no. Sorry ass piece of fetid shit. How pathetic are you? She calls that whore three times a day sometimes. Are you a martyr or just spectacularly stupid? One thing is for certain, she hates her life and demands everyone else be miserable as well. She shreds every fucking decision I make. She pummels my fiancee behind her back, trying to get me to side against the smartest, hottest, funniest, most generous, most patient woman on the planet. Guess what mother? You lose. Besides all these mentioned and unmentioned benefits to this woman, she lets me do one other thing to her that makes her win by default. Take a guess you undersexed shitbag. Oh, and she can cook, unlike you and that megalomaniac mother of yours.

So back to the holidays. Our T-day dinner at mother figure’s house comprised of NO happy conversations about all the fun shit going on with me and my siblings and three, count ’em THREE fucking references to her failing health and a rash requiring ointment… or was it salve? Ugh. Thanks mom for that visual. Go talk to your dog about your bullshit. Your quack doctor obviously doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. Here’s an idea. Stop taking forty-seven different fucking pills three times a day and go for a walk for exercise. You’re pathetic. Ugh, hugging her frail, bony body makes me shudder and causes my skin to writhe. I cringe when I hug my own mother. I’d rather hug a cactus. Is that normal?

So that was the beginning of my holiday. It was also the end, because I refuse to go up there again for Christmas. Of course she’s pissed and shrieking like a zombie about how it’s my fiancee’s fault for controlling me and forcing me to boycott. Hey moron! Guess what? I’ve wanted to do this for years. Now I have a place I actually want to go, without a wailing mother figure and screaming kids. It’s gonna be awesome. We’ll eat, laugh, drink some fucking scotch, exchange presents, drink some more fucking scotch, and one more very important thing. We’ll act like a normal fucking family and keep the conversations about our rashes where they belong. In the confines of a doctor’s office.

So there it is. I hope your hollowdays aren’t as empty as mine. Eat, drink, fuck, punch your narcissistic mothers in the throat, and be merry bitches.

Peace,

Sturm

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