Faith, Charity, Fortitude, Chastity, Whiskey
I fucking refuse to go back to DC for Christmas ever a-god-damn-gain. Someone kindly bash my head in with a brick if I ever threaten to, please. It would be a kindness to a mad dog. If I have to listen one more time to Mom and Michael asking me about girls, grades or sports so help me I will not be responsible for my actions. Just fair warning.
Alex was a such a shit again and stayed away (probably on a cruise in Belize with some nubile young cabana boy now, the asshole) not that I can blame him at all. But please, Brother Mine, have some fucking fraternal pity. You owe me a drink for every time Mom looked at the mantelpiece with that awful photo of you on the rowing team and heaved a long-suffering, would-be-saintly sigh. Shit, it was all I could do not to jump up and yell "Guess what! I fuck boys too! Both your sons are bent!" Just to get the disappointment and outcasting over and done with (again and again and again).
Aren't we our father's sons, Mother? Aren't you so proud?
Mea maxima culpa, bitches. And yes, Michael, I drank your crap-ass whiskey you shitty excuse for a father figure.
It's all too sick-making.
I miss Morocco, and trying to be 'good' blows. If this cracked out institution of higher learning wants Evelyn Waugh, it'll damn well get me. I am done with going to class and going home and going to class and going home. Bring me the finest substances in the land, and I shall consume them.
I am having a party, and I'm inviting all the bright young debauched things of Meridian, including you. (And I don't care if you don't think you're one of them, whoever you are reading this, you are or will be, I promise.) I don't know when, perhaps next Tuesday. The theme is Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, in theme with my classes this semester.
For the love of all saints and pretty little angels bring something with alcohol in, or other illicitry. Otherwise I'll feed you to the Goths, and will never forgive you besides.
Alex was a such a shit again and stayed away (probably on a cruise in Belize with some nubile young cabana boy now, the asshole) not that I can blame him at all. But please, Brother Mine, have some fucking fraternal pity. You owe me a drink for every time Mom looked at the mantelpiece with that awful photo of you on the rowing team and heaved a long-suffering, would-be-saintly sigh. Shit, it was all I could do not to jump up and yell "Guess what! I fuck boys too! Both your sons are bent!" Just to get the disappointment and outcasting over and done with (again and again and again).
Aren't we our father's sons, Mother? Aren't you so proud?
Mea maxima culpa, bitches. And yes, Michael, I drank your crap-ass whiskey you shitty excuse for a father figure.
It's all too sick-making.
I miss Morocco, and trying to be 'good' blows. If this cracked out institution of higher learning wants Evelyn Waugh, it'll damn well get me. I am done with going to class and going home and going to class and going home. Bring me the finest substances in the land, and I shall consume them.
I am having a party, and I'm inviting all the bright young debauched things of Meridian, including you. (And I don't care if you don't think you're one of them, whoever you are reading this, you are or will be, I promise.) I don't know when, perhaps next Tuesday. The theme is Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, in theme with my classes this semester.
For the love of all saints and pretty little angels bring something with alcohol in, or other illicitry. Otherwise I'll feed you to the Goths, and will never forgive you besides.