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First, I told you not to call me
here, mom. I'm at work. I can't spend my whole day talking to
you.
Second, how blasted on acid were you and dad
when you picked my fucking name? I mean I know it was the
sixties and all but shit, no one in either of your families is
even named Al let alone fucking Allistair.
You didn’t even spell it right. There’s only supposed to be one L
in Alistair.
And wasn't Steven the name of the guy you dated
before dad? How'd you talk the old man into that one? And where
the fuck do you get off making a fucking joke out of my name.
Ooh, I know, let’s make the earliest basis for his individuality
and self worth an ass joke. Was I a fucking experiment to see if
you could create a
serial killer? Why didn't you just name me
KickMyAss
BitchBoy
Schroedinger.
You know, I
was fine with the emotional isolation, total absence of
parent-child bonding, the not even pretending that you had kids
for any other reason than the free manual labor, and the
ritualized beatings. I took that shit out on some small animals.
But this whole name thing is just fucked up.
I mean if you beat
the shit out of me everyday for twelve years, eventually the
county would have taken me away and stuck me in a pedophilic
foster home, but creating a situation where every kid in the
neighborhood does it and you get people telling you "What an
original name". At least the pedophiles would have pretended
to like me.
This is why you shouldn't talk to me at work.
This kind of shit always breaks down into me whining about how
abused I was. Boo-frickety-hoo, woe
the fuck is me. Suburban white boy had such a tough life. I
despise self pity, and I don't need any other reasons to hate
myself, thank you very much. Go sell crazy someplace else; we're
all stocked up here. So from now on just don't fucking talk to me
at work.
See you for Easter.
P.S.
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I had repressed the time you yelled down the
street to me as I was going to a sleep over at the chief
tormentor’s house. I know you had that drug-swing thing going with
the Schultz’s but how’d you not notice that that kid hated me?
Just for future reference, in case you have kids in your next life
or something, yelling “Stevie-Wevie
you forgot your
plastic underwear. You don’t want to pee the bed do you?”
at the top of your lungs wasn’t the
most tactful way to handle that.
P.P.S
| I was the one that set
the Schultz’s house on fire.
P.P.P.S.
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Am I supposed to pick up the
ham for Sunday or what?
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