Finally Christmas day has come and gone. Do not mistake my discernment for Christmas day with my particular gratification for receiving well warranted gifts. Perish the thought of Sue Sylvester actually refusing the tawdry, inconsiderate gifts of well meaning but frankly misguided peasants that I am forced to fraternise with on a regular basis. Journal, What must I have done in a previous life to have earned me the unfortunate circumstances of being surrounded by complete dolts such as that man whose hair is reminiscent of a scourer… William Schuester?
I can always be relied on to be completely honest with you can’t I journal? This Christmas left me hollow. I thought the gift of giving something back to people who have very little was supposed to be rewarding? What accolade or form of remuneration did I get other than the urgent need to incessantly wash myself every hour on the hour since the moment I entered the shelter? I am sure that about 99 percent of them had rabies and the one percent that didn’t was me and maybe a rat I saw running through the kitchens. Not to mention that the damned Glee Club now harbours the misguided assumption that I actually LIKE them because they decided to help out. Really? I mean I thought it was Porcelains father who had got the Baboon heart transplant (Though admittedly I do not mind Porcelain so much). The whole glee club are like the spare parts that God had left over that he just didn’t know what to do with. He figured ‘waste not want not’ and decided to create them. That’s why they turned into such physical and mental rejects… or maybe I am wrong and it might be cross contamination in the form of incest. Hey, maybe if I donate a couple of brain cells to that pity party, could it be considered as me being a good humanitarian? God knows the world would be better with more Sue Sylvester’s around. Still, enough about them, back to myself…
This is the first Christmas without my sister Jean. It is the holidays so I have no Cheerleading Squad to ‘pep’, no Glee Club to seek and destroy, no Figgins to mentally wear down and black mail, and certainly no Will Schuester to visualise drowning in a mug of his own coffee/spit or the comfort of imagining him getting his head slammed in a grand piano. I don’t get to verbally beat him down to his face and have had therefore had to settle for little black envelopes with pieced together letters sent to his house like in a strange English Program called Eastenders I managed to catch on the TV over the Christmas period.
Yes. I was that bored I actually resorted to tacky English television.
Instead I am left with the depressing knowledge that whilst I enjoy my own company far more than anyone else’s, I will never get to see my sister open another present. I will never have the opportunity to receive another handmade card (the past of which I definitely haven’t kept in the top right hand side of my wardrobe) and I won’t get to watch her face light up again as we watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and exchange the one present I actually receive at Christmas.
When I become President or Ruler of the world, the first thing I am going to do Journal is ban Christmas!
Have to go, I have a live pig, hog tied to a spit out in the back garden ready to roast. And no, I am not talking of the farm variety.