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Deck the Motherfucking Halls

Dear Solomon,

I am writing you this letter because I am too furious to speak to you right now, and if I attempt to do so, I will only end up bringing you serious bodily harm.
You are a fucking jerk. Last night, you spent your last hour of wakefulness running back and forth from my room to the dining room. You'd pounce on my bed (on my FEET, as I was trying to SLEEP), and then you'd tear into the living room and attack the Santa Claus that's been on my dresser for OVER A MONTH NOW, yet somehow you just noticed it yesterday and decided Santa needed to die. Maybe this is just your way of reminding me that it's the New Year already and we have no need for Christmas decorations any longer. If so, point taken.

This morning I woke up to you attacking Santa again. SO HE DIDN'T COME FOR YOU THIS YEAR. GET OVER IT. Don't you get spoiled enough as it is with a three-year-old constantly seeking your affections? I rescued you from that little crack house of a pet store, from that horrible, horrible woman with the bad perm that was still trying to work itself out of her hair after fifteen years of neglect, and this is the thanks I get?
So I got you off of Old Man Winter, and what do you do? HMM? YOU GO STRAIGHT TO THE KITCHEN AND KNOCK OVER THE RECYCLING BIN, WHICH CONTAINS THE EMPTY CAN OF TUNA REMAINING FROM MADDIE'S DINNER LAST NIGHT, AND PROCEED TO SHRED APART THE PLASTIC BAG I HAD WRAPPED AROUND THE CAN AS A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE, THEREBY SUCCESSFULLY THWARTING MY NOT-SO BRILLIANT PLAN AND STARTING MY DAY OF WITH SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, YOU FUCK.
On my kitchen there is a plaque, given to me by my best friend. You can't read it because you're a cat, but if you could, you would find that underneath the little picture of the woman in the straightjacket of leather buckles it says, "Some mornings it just doesn't pay to gnaw through the leather straps."
So I put you on the porch for a little time out, which lasted only about three seconds, because we live in Wisconsin, and as is known to happen sometimes in Wisconsin, God unleashed his wrath on our stockpiles of cheese and gave us a snow storm last night. How do you like snow, Solomon? It's wet, like water, only colder.
Here, I am reminded of the title of a Catherine Wheel song, "Eat My Dust You Insensitive Fuck," however, it has been proven in the past that the only thing worse than being a pansy British emo boy is quoting one.
You are damn lucky to be alive right now, seeing as all of this happened before I had my coffee, you conniving son of a bitch, and yes I realize that makes me the bitch. Remember that next time you fuck with my freshly scrubbed garbage can, you fuck.

Love,
Mom

Posted by stephanie at January 5, 2005 09:17 AM