DAYS I HAVEN’T MET CHARLIE BROOKER
- Sentenced Love-
I don’t want to go. Why the shit didn’t I just stay home, watching cartoons and waiting for life. Shit. I truly believe they organize these so they can brag in front of one another. Isn’t that the whole point of having a family by the end of the day? It’s a nice way to measure your accomplishments, put them on perspective, when you get to see that old talkative popular in school cousin of yours arriving on a shittier car than the one you drive. After all, there’s no more precise way to count the amount of smiles a person gives out a day than by the amount of horses that same individual can fit inside it’s hunk of metal’s engine.
I’m somehow excited to meet my brother’s kids. I mean, by the end of the day, he didn’t do any of this on purpose, he was only living his life as he intended to. It’s not his fault he became the new minimum standard by which everyone else in my family will judge fulfillment and happiness among others. I thought things were tough when I was just a young basket case trying to become a shitty writer, Charlie, but dude, I wasn’t expecting the crap-storm that followed his weeding. What the shit am I going to listen now, being the 40 year-old lego collecting lonely loser? I better try kicking some ass as an uncle. Shit, I hope that kid likes videogames.
I love how they’ll pretend, after letting their sorrows and regrets towards me escape through a lot of words as they usually do, that everything’s fine. That I’m entitled to my life or whatever. True bashing starts on their way home, dude. Fuck, remember how they used to trash everyone else? I don’t think it’s going to be the first time they’ll do it tome, but this one is going to be epic! Shit, think that was one of the moments I realized I didn’t care much about being part of this boring bourgeoisie little fucked up club they call family. Sure, there’s no price of admission first, they’ll only analyze personally — and by analyze I mean judge — and by judge I mean gossip— every little inch of your soul. It’s hard to fulfill the demands of a group that is so unwillingly open to accept diverse members. You’re welcome as long as you keep your mouth shut, like being a Scientologist.
And then, of course, let’s never forget — as I’m about to meet them and I better keep that in mind — love. There’s always that made of sugar, guilt that encapsulates us, no matter what you feel or do. The one that guarantees your life membership card, almost impossible to lose it. I truly believe we ought to invent another word here. Seriously, it is love, I suppose, but we got to separate that love from other forms of love. We’ve been doing this 1984 over-simplification for way to long. It’s easier to determine what the shit we feel if we properly name it. At least let’s give it another word to follow. Due to the lack of originality this tension provides me now, I have a dumb suggestion. I’d say we called it “sentenced love”. Well, I’m doomed for eternity and yet I’m somehow glad about it. After all, due to their support and the general knowledge that there’s no such thing as a free lunch, shit, I might as well give them a few liners on how crappy I truly feel.
Day 80, Charlie, think I’ll mention I haven’t seen a naked female in over a year. Throw them a bone.