Yes, my dear readers! It's that time of year again! (Or month, whichever your cantankerous preference.)
It's *drumroll please* ----- MY REGULAR RANT!
Now, obviously I've been on rant hiatus for quite awhile now, as, you know, I was focusing more on the positive things in life, trying to rediscover my zen and hone the flow of my Chi into central life force energy, allowing me to transcend mortal limits and gain enlightenment.
Ahhh, bullcrap.
I've just been lazy.
And now, since one of my New Years resolution is to 'pick that A$ of that chair and do some NUTS' (quite literally), well, NUTS is what I'm gonna get on here.
It's that time of the year again folks. New Year. A time where everyone is commercially psyched to feel like they're getting a new beginning (and hence to 'lose weight', AGAIN, and by losing weight means getting the new Vibrational Power Plate which costs $2999.99, not including shipping and delivery costs.) - when in fact what all these suckers are doing is roping themselves into a never ending vortex of wishful thinking and exponential failing.
Why so cynical, you would ask?
Well. I'm guessing you would grow up into a hopeful young bean, full of desire and joy, optimistic, a go-getter, 'Never say never!' kinda fella.
That is, unless, you grew up in my family.
You see, new year in my extended family is a sardonic celebration of sadism, occasionally punctuated by shrill whines of materialism, accompanied by an endless buffet of bad parenting complemented with a bottle of vintage loathe.
And, oh yeah, throw in the crazy alcoholic aunty to boot.
There you have it. A cocktail of fucking misery.
EVERY SINGLE YEAR, we have the annual 'discussion' about funds. MONEY. Stakeholder SHARES. DIVIDENDS. And Oh-my-fucking-Gaga, if anybody mentions LIQUIDATION, I swear liquids WILL come out ON YOU.
Oh oh oh, and that's not it. Once the assets are divided and done, then comes the annual dinner. Ohhhhh yeesssss. The ANNUAL DINNER.
When you have three crazy grand-aunts, all in differing stages of dementia, a gold-digging whore for an aunty and various other debaucheries dressed up in the form of great-uncles, cousins and in-laws, well, you have a bad family.
And when you them put together in a room,
with FOOD,
and ALCOHOL.
God save you.
AND if you think the old ones are bad, lets just say Hell has more than one surprise up its diabolical sleeve. Ever seen parenting gone totally haywire? Ever seen more maids in one room than there are employers? Ever seen that amount of maids fail to control that extent of crazy parenting? No? Don't mind popping in for a drink some time. I'm sure it'll blow your mind.
Oh, and don't get me started on Christmas.
Yes. I think this rant is waaaaaay overdue.
Christmas, a time for giving, and sharing, and presents under the mistletoe, and whatever jolly good wholesome crap.
Lemme tell you something. Gift giving is an art. Not everybody gives good gifts. Thought, time and money must be invested in every present since each individual is different in their wants and needs.
So here it is.
Giving me a bag of pasar malam cookies does not count as a suitable Christmas gift. Nor does a box of Panda biscuits.
What in the world were you THINKING, when my MOTHER breaks her back every year just to find the most elaborate gifts for YOUR children, and all you gave me one year was a stack of coloured paper, with instructions on how to fold paper planes.
HOW TO FOLD FUCKING PAPER PLANES.
You know who folds paper planes? The crazy. Yeah. The psycho, schizophrenic, loonies. The ones high on some abhorrent neuro-drug, who taste freaking sounds and get this, are naturally psychedelic. Yeah.
So NO. I won't fold paper planes with 'different coloured papers' (Your words) and fly them around the HOUSE when I am... I dunno... EIGHTEEN FREAKIN YEARS OLD.
Cap that off with the SNAKES AND LADDERS you got for me last year. Wow, you must really think I'm retarded.
So this year, I told my mom, hold up, I want everything in CASH. Cold hard cash, redeemable for anything my heart's desire.
What did I get?
A cookbook.
Seriously. Aside for being retarded and obviously mentally incapacitated, do I look like GODDAMMED MARTHA STEWART? Heck, if I WERE Martha Stewart, I would have WRITTEN my OWN DAMN COOKBOOK, not buy it from the rack like those posse of wannabe chefs.
Listen, if I needed a cookbook, to cook FOOD to EAT, I would either BUY a cookbook so that I can LEARN to cook, or I would have just starved to death.
Either way, it would not have equated to my state of emotions today.
So yes. New year, new beginning, blahblah shit. Same old pile of beeswax every year.
But this year I'll miss all the drama. I'll miss out on my grand-aunt quarreling with my other aunts after having her glasses of XO neat. I'll miss out on my highly obnoxious cousins running around screaming with PSPs in hand, hired help in tow. I'll miss out on the bitching, and who was wearing what; the snide remarks, the children-bragging; the eye-rolling, fake-smiling, backstabbing, wealth-comparing materialistic bunch of goons I call family.
And I've already missed out on the bunch of shitty presents waiting for my when I get back.
Dammit.
I miss home.
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