Christmas Eve of Destruction II... Use Your Delusions

Well, seems I jumped the gun on that last posting as Christmas Eve was not yet done with me. So, here we go with an addendum to the ‘festivities’ for that fateful of all evenings.

Things got invariably worse. Of the eve, this I can say in all certainty, my sister tried. She tried to make an enjoyable evening for all, but you know, my family as an entity will not have it. One member actually stayed behind simply due to the fact that he would not be allowed to smoke in the car on the way to Toronto, that’s how dysfunctional we are.

Yes, cigarettes take precedence over kin in my family. I’m still hacking and coughing due to the blue haze I’ve had to subside in over the holiday.

However, booze is the true catalyst for fireworks in my family. There are two camps. Those who can live without the booze, and who drink only rarely… and those who have developed gills, practically consuming more booze than oxygen in any given day. My mother is the latter.

After a fine meal (which my mother forewent in order to save space for copious, no, ‘stupid’ amounts of alcohol) my brother and I, bored with the slurred speech and pathetic attempts to elicit ‘dancing’ (i.e. drunken stumbling), went for a stroll. We returned to find my sister pacing tearfully outside her home, guests hurriedly packing their cars to exit and my mother fitfully screaming in a shrill stupor in the kitchen. The pitch was so deafening it briefly interrupted radio broadcasts in the area.

Now, she knows she turns into a pant-wetting, annoying retard when she tastes liquor, but she refuses to stop. We’ve been told in the past she would rather give up her family than give up drink, because nobody who truly loved her would make her give up such a pleasure. Uhhh, yeah. Mr. Sense Takes a Holiday. A quiet nip now and again is okay, but her type of binge guzzling is enough to make the stumbling reservation drunk hang his vomit-encrusted head in shame at the sight. Oh, sweet baby Jesus… When will it end? When, damn your eyes… when?

Apparently, she was being ‘ignored’ and decided to let the neighborhood know. A house full of kids and the only one throwing a tantrum is a 55-year-old former housewife. Bloody hell. Since she was in the kitchen, and I wanted to avoid her as much as possible, my plans for grabbing the largest knife in the drawer and attempting to carve my head off were dashed. It has been this way for way too long, so, next year I will volunteer for mine sweeping in Iraq or masturbating rare man-eating zoo animals during the holiday period. It’s bound to be less stressful.

Next year it’ll be different, I promise!