Twas the night before . . .

I like Bjork’s new song, Earth Intruders. When I hear it, I want to run through the woods and rip up trees and scream wildly. It’s the kind of song that gives you permission to be crazy for a while. Music should do that: provide permissive insanity.

It’s Christmas Eve today. I am avoiding seeing my sister, with whom I live, because I simply do not want to hear about my family and their festivities, which do not involve me or my big gay ass. I’m really irritated with them, and sad, and am practicing being a rabbit. Rabbits, when scared, simply stop moving: They believe that if they do not move, they thing which they are scared of will not see them and therefore not pursue them. And thus it is with me.

I considered, with N, sending a package to my family for Christmas. It would have been a poke in the ribs to them, like Hey! I exist, N exists, and you have to deal with me. And also, Merry Fucking Christmas! I have never been that blatant before when previously disowned. But my sister told me I should “give them their space.” I should let them have time to heal.

Heal from what? Their idea of what I should be? I failed that years ago. I am liberal. I have tattoos and piercings. I am divorced. I got kicked out of college. I am fat. And now I am queer. I am officially crazy. I am not perfect. I am messy and real. If they haven’t accepted all of this by now, if all of these wounds garnered from my very being haven’t turned into scars, then they are headed into a gangrenous disaster.

I am tired of always being the bad one. I wish my sister would do something particularly evil, like get knocked up or go bankrupt. Let the light of disownment shine on her for once. Let my black fleece lighten up to a nice gray.

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