18 December 2003
All I want for Christmas is your two front teeth, gilded and hanging around my neck as a sign of ownership.
What don't I want? I don't want peace on earth, and I certainly don't want your fucking pity. I want things to be actively sorted out without any half-smiles and bright "Gosh! Wow, I'm really pleased for you!" (subtext - because it's been so fucking long since XXX happened). I wouldn't mind some peas though, especially with gravy and mashed potatoes. I don't want smiling children holding hands; their tiny faces and fingers scare me. Glee worries me. I don't want that.
Reindeers, snow, mulled wine: I wouldn't mind those. Reindeer jerky is meant to be really tasty and would probably go well with the wine. I like snow fights. An early moment of sexual awakening is being wrestled into the Tyrolean snow by - well, you don't need to know his name now. He played rugby. More of a macho macho man than you'll ever be.
I want the New Year to come quickly. I feel as though this holiday season has lasted ten years already. I want this itching on my back to stop.
I want your bones ground up and presented to me in a silver phial by terrified nubile nymphettes. I want to sail out to sea in a fantastic ship manned by pirates and throw the dust into the waves in the moonlight while the drums beat on.
Speaking of music, I wouldn't mind an iPod. There's loads of stuff that's scattered around the place and it'd be great to download it all into one box. Eliza Carthy, Leftfield, Johnny Cash, early Liz Phair, the drumbeats from my pirate ship, all ready and available whenever I want to listen to them. And so shiny too!
I don't want vengeance. But, bitch, if you think that's because I'm a good and sweet person, think again: I don't want it because I don't think it could be enacted. Vengeance in this light would be as effective as burning every last pair of those gingham knickers you had or saying that your roots are greasy.
I want to decorate the tree and the cake when I get back, but I don't think that counts as it'll happen anyway. I need, not just want, some new boots with tougher zips and buckles than the last pair, which will last through the coming year and the afore-mentioned snow. Black, shiny, lots of buckles and expensive enough to be able to wipe the mess off them when I'm through. I want your blood on the walls and under my fingernails.
I don't want mercy, forgiveness, or wacky trinkets that people buy in a last minute because "You're so kooky! We saw this and thought of you!". Actually, more tights and underwear would also be useful as I always seem to lose and ladder what I have.
I want carnage, I want blood, I want screaming in the cathedrals; I want begging and repentance and the look on your face when you realise that I'm not budging an inch. I want every neuron in your body to tell every synaptic gap exactly what I've had in my head and I want it to fizz like sherbet. I want enough gore to fill my fleet, and a zombie army to clean it up afterwards. I want messages in the stars so fearful that every astrologer cuts their throat rather than transcribe on, leaving blank columns in newspapers and magazines to be filled by tea-leaf prophesiers. I want kittens to have nightmares about what will happen. I want folk songs to be written about your fate that are so terrifying that only the strongest bravest fiddlers will play them. I want papercuts on your fingertips. I want the sky to fall.
I want a new hot water bottle. Like I said, I'd really like that iPod but don't worry about it if it's too expensive.
18 December 2003. George writes: This List
Most recent ten:
15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
Also by this clown:
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
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