Tis the season of folly.
So this is how it went.
Lamb cutlets, turkey chunks, pepperoni slices, scoops of pasta, a bowl of creamiest mushroom soup-
I was a ridiculous glutton that night. A change from the usual lustful, prideful, envying creature that I am. (I'm quite convinced my veins are a sickly green.) But that night, I thought I'd eat away my malignant heart. How heavy and monstrous a beast it had become. An obese worm.
I said to myself, "Just you wait, monsieur! I'll swallow a gallon of fat tonight and thus pad myself forever against misfortunes!"
A daft thing to say. All that only made my stomach sick. The wine, however, worked splendidly.
Glorious, glorious red to placate my filthy green. They didn't have white or champagne. But I forgive them that mortal error; have to be magnanimous this season, you know. Red will do will do will do. Makes your brain into a fluttering mush for all the fruit flies to love.
As usual, there were many predictable questions thrown my way. Small talk from small people:
Why are you so skinny?
"Oh, my kind madame, how thoughtful of you to ask. It was a dreadfully spare month at the orphanage. Poor Marcel was dying from tuberculosis. Day after day, all we had was Marcel for breakfast, lunch, and supper. We are saving his thighs for New Year's. He was a good runner, you know. But anyway, I will have to have Christmas here." Wish I'd said.
What do you plan to do after you graduate?
"To do a bit of slutty porn, my good madame. Do not look so surprised. There is a huge market for me, for us, you know. Us skinny, starved orphans. We would press our small, frail bodies against large, rotund women on camera. The mind-shattering contrast would incur a highly charged explosion of forbidden eroticism. Imagine, madame. Imagine the subversive political implications. The First World fucking the Third." Should've said.
Instead, I answered courteously, rolled my eyes as theirs wandered away, and quietly sipped on my whiskey. They had whiskey, oh my sweet fishes. Whiskey. Bless their souls and curse their palates. McCachlan, it was called. I think. Likely a Scottish bum grazing about the highlands without his underwear. The host raved about the bottle. Wonderful wonderful wonderful. His little eyes bounced with the blunt cadence of his adjectives.
The drink itself had the taste of dish-washing liquid, neat from greasy factory pipes. Every sip a nauseous wince for each time your tongue died. Still, it was powerful magic. To steady myself, I dug spread-out fingers into the couch as if maniacally squeezing a pair of fleshy buttcheeks. Of course I'm fine. Of course I'm awake. Of course this conversation is fucking fascinating.
"Do you see it? You see it, don't you? How everything is moving towards the end-times. The bible says Israel will sign a pact with many. The bible says with many," said the host, a squinty-eyed man married to my cousin.
"Yeah, yeah. Of course, of course. The Anti-Christ will make it all happen. He will bring peace to the world. And everyone, the world, will believe him..." replied Dad. I reckon he hadn't had that much fun since sixteen-sixty-six AD.
I got up many times from my seat to get some food or some booze, or both. Each time, I dreadfully feared toppling over, under the influence of woozy McCachlan, and finding myself on the lap of some hag of a relative, my fingers excitedly appraising her heavily powdered cheeks. "Oh, what a ravishing apple you have, ma cherie!" An apple thrice glazed with a thick, suffocating layer of formaldehyde that is the McCachlan swimming in my brain. Observe! my fellow necrophiliacs - a wonderful lubricant for the dead.
A miracle-worker, Lady
Lazarus.
Fortunately, I avoided any incident involving apples, metaphorical or otherwise. But after awhile, after drowning myself in an ocean of red, all I wanted to do was to murmur "Mmmm-mmmm-mmmm." Loudly. Audibly. As if I could call down a plague of droning insects on the assembled guests. Instead, I sat on the stairs, away from everyone, making make-believe calls to make-believe persons. Cellphone pressed against ear, I said...
Um. Uhuh. Yup. Sure. No worries. Thank you, Bob. John. Nick. Jen. Lynn. Faye. Hillary? Course I know her! We go waaay back to Wellesley! Bama? My man, Bama. My man, my man. I think there should be a mass culling of mooses since it's proven that they contribute to global warming. Though I strongly believe Chuck Norris would look good in antlers.
"No one must know about the insectoid affliction that rages within my mental cavities." Last thing urgently whispered into the phone.
When we reached home, I ran down the street and sat on the sidewalk of the main road. I blew loud, sticky kisses at the passing cars. Shouted at the top of my lungs, "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" to each one. Happiness is possible, I realized. I just need the fruit flies to talk to me.
Lamb cutlets, turkey chunks, pepperoni slices, scoops of pasta, a bowl of creamiest mushroom soup-
I was a ridiculous glutton that night. A change from the usual lustful, prideful, envying creature that I am. (I'm quite convinced my veins are a sickly green.) But that night, I thought I'd eat away my malignant heart. How heavy and monstrous a beast it had become. An obese worm.
I said to myself, "Just you wait, monsieur! I'll swallow a gallon of fat tonight and thus pad myself forever against misfortunes!"
A daft thing to say. All that only made my stomach sick. The wine, however, worked splendidly.
Glorious, glorious red to placate my filthy green. They didn't have white or champagne. But I forgive them that mortal error; have to be magnanimous this season, you know. Red will do will do will do. Makes your brain into a fluttering mush for all the fruit flies to love.
As usual, there were many predictable questions thrown my way. Small talk from small people:
Why are you so skinny?
"Oh, my kind madame, how thoughtful of you to ask. It was a dreadfully spare month at the orphanage. Poor Marcel was dying from tuberculosis. Day after day, all we had was Marcel for breakfast, lunch, and supper. We are saving his thighs for New Year's. He was a good runner, you know. But anyway, I will have to have Christmas here." Wish I'd said.
What do you plan to do after you graduate?
"To do a bit of slutty porn, my good madame. Do not look so surprised. There is a huge market for me, for us, you know. Us skinny, starved orphans. We would press our small, frail bodies against large, rotund women on camera. The mind-shattering contrast would incur a highly charged explosion of forbidden eroticism. Imagine, madame. Imagine the subversive political implications. The First World fucking the Third." Should've said.
Instead, I answered courteously, rolled my eyes as theirs wandered away, and quietly sipped on my whiskey. They had whiskey, oh my sweet fishes. Whiskey. Bless their souls and curse their palates. McCachlan, it was called. I think. Likely a Scottish bum grazing about the highlands without his underwear. The host raved about the bottle. Wonderful wonderful wonderful. His little eyes bounced with the blunt cadence of his adjectives.
The drink itself had the taste of dish-washing liquid, neat from greasy factory pipes. Every sip a nauseous wince for each time your tongue died. Still, it was powerful magic. To steady myself, I dug spread-out fingers into the couch as if maniacally squeezing a pair of fleshy buttcheeks. Of course I'm fine. Of course I'm awake. Of course this conversation is fucking fascinating.
"Do you see it? You see it, don't you? How everything is moving towards the end-times. The bible says Israel will sign a pact with many. The bible says with many," said the host, a squinty-eyed man married to my cousin.
"Yeah, yeah. Of course, of course. The Anti-Christ will make it all happen. He will bring peace to the world. And everyone, the world, will believe him..." replied Dad. I reckon he hadn't had that much fun since sixteen-sixty-six AD.
I got up many times from my seat to get some food or some booze, or both. Each time, I dreadfully feared toppling over, under the influence of woozy McCachlan, and finding myself on the lap of some hag of a relative, my fingers excitedly appraising her heavily powdered cheeks. "Oh, what a ravishing apple you have, ma cherie!" An apple thrice glazed with a thick, suffocating layer of formaldehyde that is the McCachlan swimming in my brain. Observe! my fellow necrophiliacs - a wonderful lubricant for the dead.
A miracle-worker, Lady
Lazarus.
Fortunately, I avoided any incident involving apples, metaphorical or otherwise. But after awhile, after drowning myself in an ocean of red, all I wanted to do was to murmur "Mmmm-mmmm-mmmm." Loudly. Audibly. As if I could call down a plague of droning insects on the assembled guests. Instead, I sat on the stairs, away from everyone, making make-believe calls to make-believe persons. Cellphone pressed against ear, I said...
Um. Uhuh. Yup. Sure. No worries. Thank you, Bob. John. Nick. Jen. Lynn. Faye. Hillary? Course I know her! We go waaay back to Wellesley! Bama? My man, Bama. My man, my man. I think there should be a mass culling of mooses since it's proven that they contribute to global warming. Though I strongly believe Chuck Norris would look good in antlers.
"No one must know about the insectoid affliction that rages within my mental cavities." Last thing urgently whispered into the phone.
When we reached home, I ran down the street and sat on the sidewalk of the main road. I blew loud, sticky kisses at the passing cars. Shouted at the top of my lungs, "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" to each one. Happiness is possible, I realized. I just need the fruit flies to talk to me.