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2023-12-22 - 12:21 p.m.

The Leaftah of a Chiyuld

I am so hostile. Hahahaha.

My sister and I used that phrase a lot and it perfectly describes me at certain times, when I, privately express tiny bursts of rage over things that I can't say out loud, because either they're petty, or hurtful, or just very unnecessary, or all three. I find myself feeling hostile the most toward a 12 year old boy who is living with me now. I care for the kid, and save for occasional bouts of despair, I have resigned myself to sacrificing my next few however many years in order to give this guy a happy life. That said, my fuse is extraordinarily short when it comes to his brand of manipulation which, aside of the ADHD that makes me want to kick him down a well, is baby talking, an obviously contrived and woefully childish charade that he employs for favor. My sister told me that this behavior was probably his currency at his former home, where the mother is a dim sort who could perhaps be charmed by the lilting voice of a wee chiiiiild. Me? Not so much. I monitor his online activity and have seen him acting like a brash and brave man of action, talking tough and displaying swagger...so when his voice goes up two octaves and he bleats something syrupy sweet that he thinks must be the cutest thing that a diminutive person ever uttered, it makes me want to wheel on him and destroy him with pointed accuracy. And that won't do, will it?

Just now he was handling all of the gifts under the tree, directly after I asked him not to handle all the gifts under the tree, and I did not stop him because...well, I know I'm being a shrew, and it's Christmas for God's sake. Quite literally. Well, for humankind's sake actually, but I digress;

I allowed him to continue shaking the presents because it's really not going to do any harm. The harm that it *could* do (him going forward with his plan and touching all the presents anyway after I'd ask him to wait until this evening when I would single out his presents and let him shake them to his heart's content) is already done, as he blew right past me and touched every single one of the gifts already, including the one, so very not for him, which I'd carefully tucked into the tree, only to see him clutch it with his gritty, little penis fingers (which is what I will call them until he gets into the habit of washing his hands after he uses the restroom, a constant struggle and the reason why he's not allowed to touch the refrigerator), igniting my irritation fully, though I kept it veiled because... Christmas, man.

Moments later, in either a fit of holiday joy, or a brand of sarcasm all his own, I truly don't know which, he broke into song, sounding all the world like a 5-year-old singing, "It's Chriiiiiistmas, it's Chriiiiiiiiistmas".

I'm in the kitchen, sitting by the window drinking my coffee and I am not visible to him, which is good because I found myself screwing up my face like Jim Carrey, my mouth tightly stretched in a grimace, my bottom lip only moving, my eyes crossed and as I mimicked his holiday outburst to mock his ghey display and revel in my hatred for, as Peter Griffin would say, "the leaftah of a chiyuld", heeheheheheehe".

Unless he somehow stumbles upon this diary in his adulthood, which would be terrible because he'll think I didn't love him at all and I really do, this kid will never know just how hostile I really am. Or maybe he totally knows and does it on purpose to send me into a wildfits of interior rage and grimacing in the corner in my kitchen. Hahahahhahahhaa

It's all kind of funny... when it's not mind bendingly distressing.

I'm a whiner.


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