The Grapes of Past

And it's a new year. 

I wish all of you just enough success in 2009 so as to not make me jealous of you. 

If my hopes come true, expect a lackluster year. 

But my hopes never come true. 
Which is why I'll have a lackluster year. 

My new year's resolution?

Also known as an eventual broken promise to yourself?

Start eating grapes again. 

I used to always eat grapes as a kid. 

Now, it's not that I dislike them. 

I simply haven't been bothered enough to eat them. 

I'd say I haven't eaten a grape in at least ten years or so. 

And what lies are you telling yourselves this season?

Vomit after more meals?

Jerk off in the shower regularly?

You'll never make it. 

It's like Lent. Minus the piety and accompanying guilt. 

I'm less bothered by my own nudity when I'm subjecting someone else to it. 

My missus spent some of Christmas with the Warfords. 

Which involves being ignored in the name of video games. 

And hearing my parents talk about what Jim Saunders is up to. 

Whoever the fuck that is. 

"Oh, you knows Jim. He's married to Louise." 

"Louise...Now, did she used to be a Dawe?"

"Yes, up in Brigus..."

That sort of thing. 

She fared rather well. 

And the gifts that mom gave her didn't even turn out to be hideous. 

I gave her macaroni glued to stuff. 

Because I'm a shitty, yet adorable, boyfriend. 

I've never met anyone named Lucy. 

Unless I have and I've forgotten. 

In which case, Lucy will probably read this in a few days. 
And then she'll be pissed. 

But that's just like her.

Under the Assumption

I'll tell you guys cause you won't tell anybody.

Right?

Right. 

...The hat was under me. 

I was just trying to fucking sleep. 

And I assumed that the hat wasn't under me. 

I'm just kind of the family scapegoat.

Since Brian bested that Nirvana phase of his. 

But, when he exclaimed that the hat was 'probably under Paul,'

I just continued to pretend I was asleep. 

Like any decent rooster would've been. 

It was 5 a.m..

After much cursing and turned seat cushions, they gave up and drove off with Brian. 

In a huff. 

To fly him off to the place where everyone is in a huff.

Every day.

I draped my arm further into the couch, as I do. 

That's what I love about the pull-outs. 

They go on forever. 

Anyway. 

The hat was there. 

I felt the velcro of it first, and said, 'Aww fuck,'

To the empty room. 

Then I stared at it for a few seconds. 

Then I went back to bed (couch). 

But I couldn't sleep.

Becuase the hat had been under me. 

And even though we checked under me. 

It would still be my fault somehow, don't you see?

So, I jammed the hat under the other couch. 

They've since found it there, and they're going to send it to Brian. 

Expresspost. 

Because Brian can turn communists, he's so scary when he's mad. 

I've been dying to tell somebody. 

Now you miscreants know. 

If mom ever mentions it to you, change the subject. 

Try talking about jam. 
She likes jam.