Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam

Gah. Crapdom. Felicity in shoe-pants.

I have to clean the house a bit, particularly the kitchen. It's not enough; it will never be enough.

The bad turkey from yesterday is still sitting in my gut. I can feel it tearing at my insides with long razor claws, making me swell like a persimmon. Dainty as fuck.

I broke the bed, the metal rolly-frame. One of the legs got stuck and bent when I moved the bed, and the angle just made it collapse when I sat on it. I hate the rolly-frame anyway since it makes the bed roll away from the wall and I lose the pillows, it fucks up the floor, and it makes the bed too high. The rolly-frame is dead, and it's carcass will be removed to the bed equivalent of turkey-bone hell.

There's a walrus in my mirror. He tells me a story of oysters, sad and lonely on a beach, while a carpenter sits on a rock and cries, turning holy water into wine. I think he might be faking it, but I admire his mustache and I tell him as much when he says to me I am the walrus, I cannot be anything different and then I sneeze and fart at the same time, painful and full of echoes.

I had a dream of sex and death. Neither one was real, they were masquerading as each other because they were bored and having a party. I asked death if it was true that you had an orgasm when you died, and she said no, but I do.

I need to shower, but I will never be clean. The dirt is on the inside, where the only eyes that see it are those of the voices that ride around in my head. They want revenge for all of the horrible things I've ever done. And cake, they want cake. Except Shelby, she wants pie. Always the rebel, Shelby.

Mango fruitcake pieces on my lawn
Eggnog-vomit caked on near the door
Somebody's underwear I don't recognize
And in the guest bed lies an old dead whore

The tree is lying on its side
Presents torn and thrown asunder
The neighbor children see my house
Their eyes filled with Christmas wonder

Santa is lying on my front porch, bottle of cheap scotch in one hand, a rifle in the other. There are six reindeer carcasses, and a turned-over sleigh. He's not moving, but I don't know whether he's passed out or just faking it waiting for Cupid and Vixen to come back. I don't dare check, because I don't trust an old delusional alcoholic with firearms after last year's fiasco with the peanut-butter truck.

Oh, crap. He was faking.

The neigbors should know better than to let their children wear those stupid reindeer-antler headbands outside. That's gonna suck to clean up come springtime.

Here's hoping that your holiday season brings you joy and merriment with friends and family.

Love and Rockets,
Tags: angst, christmas, writing

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