The Last, Lost Invitation EVER

It was so sweet that mommy was waiting in the window for me when I got home today from two nights away at Papa Tim’s and Gramma Jett’s.  She gushed how much she missed me, doted on my black eye (yes, another black eye in the family–this time I walked into a kitchen table, but you can bet your ass that mommy be on her best behavior or that’s not the story I will be telling my teachers tomorrow), asked me what kind of fun games I wanted to play today, hugged me, plastered me with kisses, you know.  The whole guilty lot of shit parents do when they ship their oldest son out for the weekend and have a kick-ass, raging Memorial Day party behind his back.  Oh, what, you think the Gusman didn’t know?  That I don’t find this shit out?  That I had no idea that Sienna was at my house all fucking day yesterday playing with my toys, eating my gummy worms, watering my mommy’s flowers, dancing around and singing her stupid fucking songs about rainbows and sparkly princesses while everyone else sat at the outdoor bar eating junk food out of gigantic, colorful bowls, sucking down vodka and wine like the apacalypse was knocking on the front door?  Oh, yeah, guess what assholes?  I knew.  Gramma Jett slipped up and told me.  And when I wanted to leave their house immediately after learning about this utterly disgusting betrayal to come join the party and wreak havoc like I have not wreaked havoc before, she said, simply, no.  That I had to stay the night with them while everyone continued to party on like Donkey Kong at MY HOUSE in San Jose.  And so, when mommy greeted me with loving enthusiasm this morning, let’s just say I did not feel the need to return the sentiment in full.

So I didn’t.  Gramma Jett didn’t stay long, which was a perfect reason to throw a fit.  I pretty much had to get started right out of the gate if mommy wanted to know exactly how pissed off I was about this whole thing.  So I asked if Gramma Jett could please stay for a while, and when she gave me some lame-assed excuse about errand-running, I cranked out the tears and kicked and screamed on the kitchen floor for a full three minutes.  They tried to talk over me, so I screamed louder.  When Gramma tried to hug and kiss me goodbye, I denied her.  Then, after she’d left, I cried, kicked and screamed even harder because I didn’t get a hug and a kiss goodbye.  Mommy said, let’s play a game! in a shamefully sprightly tone.  I gave her a withering look and told her I did NOT want to play a game with her, now or EVER.  She responded once more with a chirpy, smiley, how about if we take a walk to the park? and I have to say, in light of yesterday’s party, and the pain in my heart from being disallowed to be here to protect my toys and throw shit at Sienna when she took things that didn’t belong to her, I wanted to knock that cheery look off of mommy’s face with a frying pan. I told her I didn’t want to go to the park in the nastiest tone I could muster, and I took a swing at her kneecaps with my Mickey Mouse jumprope.  The cheery face disappeared shortly after that, replaced with disappointment and anger.  The beauty of this situation was that I fully understood something:  It wasn’t just my attitude that was making her mad, it was that she genuinely missed me and wanted her kissy, lovey little man back to cuddle and hold.  She wanted to sit on the couch with me and exchange giggles and smooches and hugs.  Well fuck that shit.  She could have kissed me and loved me and cuddled me all day yesterday while I was here at the party–with my toys.  My snacks.  My cousins.  But no.  That’s not how it all went down.

Long story short, I gave her some genuine hell this morning.  A good bout of name-calling, a whole lot of antagonizing Rat Baby, a lot of punches and kicks, and several thrown toys to boot yielded four time-outs in under an hour.  I think I saw tears welling up in her eyes at one point after my third “you’re the meanest mommy EVER!” so I backed off a bit, but it’s not because I am even close to forgiving anyone in this fucking shithead family.  What is a party without the Gusman?  It’s like a birthday cake minus a booty-licious Korean girl inside just waiting to pop out and hose me down with whipped cream, that’s what it is.  It’s unnecessary, it’s boring, and it incites sorrow, fury, and a little bit of dickhead from within me.  So let’s just not let it happen again.  Daddy will be home at four, and I hope he doesn’t think he’s off the hook either.  I would almost expect this from mommy, because let’s face it, she can be a selfish bitch, but daddy?  He’s my boy.  He blind-sided me.  It’s crap.

Let this be a lesson to all of you who consider not inviting me to your upcoming summertime extravaganza.   You know what I’m capable of.  Try and stay on my good side or you will end up crying premenstrual tears into your mid-afternoon Kahlua and coffee just like the hag.  And it ain’t pretty, bitches.



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