You know That One Level in a video game—or heck, a badly run RPG session—where things are randomly thrown at you so fast that the only way to get through is to twitch like hell, get lucky, and endure a gazillion continues (if you’re lucky; restarts if you’re not)?
Yeah, so. I have no idea how I survived any holidays when I was a kid. Except that I didn’t survive them on my own virtue; my father simply chose not to kill me. He came close sometimes, certainly I’m still scared of matches and lit candles to the point where I cannot actually light a candle, and I still don’t own any big meat-cutting knives, and I hate boiling water on a stove.
He could have killed me any time he liked. Even through college. The holidays were a big focusing point for him, and if I’m honest about it, probably most of the almost-murder-but-not-quite attempts occurred near or on them.
And that’s probably why my body’s visceral reflexes are all fucked up during the holidays.
Well. It’s kind of obvious. I just never really thought about it before. I simply felt it and had partial flashbacks.
… I don’t think it helps.
Anyways, I ran out of spoons. Or humor. Or something. I won’t be updating any other blogs. I am glad I can scrape up enough words together to make this post.