The Blog Gimp

I started this blog so I would be able to keep a record of the little moments that occur with the children that I would be bound to forget. I thought it would be full of delightful little anecdotes and sweet reports of charming things my offspring had said and done, the hilarious occurrences in the daily life of a young family.

What I failed to take into consideration was that I, not my fictional self,  was part of this family and that it was not going to be possible to divorce my intrinsic darkness from this process and indeed the sullen, sarky-voiced nihilist in the trunk I have been sitting on, hard, since we moved to Stepford, (or in fact since I married Husband – hah! Fooled him!) was going to come hurtling out onto the page, like the Gimp, as soon as she thought the coast was clear.

Hello, World! She says. Who can I shit all over today?

I do manage to restrain myself most days, partly because I was fool enough to tell a few people that I know the URL, but I spend quite a bit of time holding down the delete button when some particularly satisfying piece of gratuitous nastiness trips out. It is harder, though,  to make myself do this when I find a superlatively eloquent phrase that describes my target with vicious accuracy.

The glee! The glee! The second-hand, passive-aggressive, demonically cackling, unrepentant, absolute and resolute delight in being much more horrible than I would dare to be in person. It’s quite exhilarating, you know! It’s what enables me to put on my apron and whip up cupcakes with a smile in my pink Kitchen-Aid mixer that I cunningly bought to disguise myself as a proper mother when I moved here so the other people would think I’d assimilated. Yes, along with those whimsically shaped cake tins I’ve purchased  in droves. Hundreds of them. One for each thought crime. That’s why their house is bigger than mine.

I think that if I were involved in ‘good works’ I would probably not have time to think bad thoughts. However my rather long history upon this earth has shown that I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to avoid doing any kind of real work, good or otherwise so perhaps we can deduce that I’ve actually expended quite a bit of effort towards ensuring I am free and clear to think the bad kind of thoughts. This makes me feel rather cheerful in a nasty sort of way.

Oh dear, I do hope Husband isn’t reading this. He’s so shockable and he does like to think the best of me. Honeymoon over?

If you’re reading this, Husband, please leave me a nice, reassuring comment! Please? Pretty please??

I am never quite sure whether Husband reads my blog or not.  He might be a silent LURKER.

I just had to take a short break from writing this to take Bagpurrito to the vet for a vaccination which terrified the poor darling, and do you know, I think the man was drunk? I have a sixth sense about this kind of thing having spent my formative years with an alcoholic. Kind of like my own personal booze-dar.  He was perfectly coherent, especially when talking about professional matters such as the cat’s mild chin acne (stress related, should disappear now he’s at home with a ‘nice family’ – little does the fool know, ha ha ha ha ha, lightening bolt, thunder, cackle cackle) but when he started to talk to me about more personal things – we have friends in common – he started repeating himself, blinking very slowly and laughing at his own jokes-as yet unmade.
A little disturbing?
Maybe, though, he wasn’t drunk, but merely testing the animal sedatives on himself which would make him almost noble or at least excuse him as naturally curious?
I think I will take Bagpurrito elsewhere if anything more serious than spots on the chin comes up, though.

So, back to the Gimp.
I find that she is most likely to want to come out when I am writing something fairly innocuous.
Like the other day when I was waxing lyrical about adverbs for Bambino Goodies.

It’s not that I didn’t mean it. I did.

I liked that piece and it was all very wholesome and cute, in its way.

But, like Reta, the protagonist from Carol Shields‘ Unless, sometimes I can find

“that my writing is just the teensiest  bit darling”.

That’s when I want to get out my AK47 and blow everyone’s brains out.

Especially mine.

But not exclusively.

Told you I was nasty.

I have literary Colombine massacres in my head. They’re such fun and so very cathartic.

And because they take place in a contained, virtual space I don’t have to mop anything up afterwards (so DONE with cleaning – how much fucking Play-Doh did I pick off the dining room floor today alone?).
And as for doing time, aren’t I already doing that? I’m trapped in here with a psychotic madwoman and nobody’s going to let me out any time soon. Well, they might give me a day pass if I get hold of some strong psychotropics but the FDA is so miserly with that kind of thing and my once-strong network of unorthodox suppliers is an ocean and a 10 hour time difference away.
Sigh..

I think that is enough excitement for one evening, Gimp.

Back in the box. More jolly japes tomorrow. I might let you out later to leave anonymous comments on Rush Limbaugh’s website if you’re really desperate. Otherwise go to bed.

She’s a good girl, really..

Now, what kind of cupcake would you like?

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