If you're reading this letter, some sort of unspeakable tragedy must have occurred. Please know that while I may be entirely responsible for whatever terrible events have led to this moment...none of it is my fault.
First off, I can't control the weather. If you've discovered this letter somewhere on my frozen corpse, just how in the hell was I supposed to know that God would be dumping several feet of snow on Vancouver Island? I'm sure it surprised everybody, not least of all me, who was probably just trying to get to the mall in some poorly considered shoes.
If you've just pulled me out of a snowbank, then I thank you for finding me and telling my story. I also thank you for not announcing to the world that I was found frozen with a hole in my underpants. My mother warned me to always make sure my underwear was without holes in case of an accident. I suppose if you found me in a snowbank, an accident occurred.
In my defense, I was very busy in the weeks leading up to the holidays and I never got around to doing laundry. Besides, if you're pulling me out of a snowbank and my underwear is showing then my pants were also poorly considered and you really ought to be just overwhelmed with sorrow at my predicament instead of being all judgy about who's wearing what. Asshole.
It's quite possible I survived the elements, and you've discovered this letter somewhere at the scene of a terrible crime, the details of which are still sketchy. All that may be known at the time this letter is discovered is that so far I had spent four days snowbound in a small house with my parents and somewhat deaf 82 year-old Scottish grandmother. My very flatulent grandmother.
Terrible things go through one's mind after four days of conversations between one's Mother and Grandmother that sound like this:
Mother: What did you say Mom?
Grandmother: What?
Mother: What?
Grandmother: Aye?
Mother: Yes?
Grandmother: What?
Mother: What?
Grandmother:
To be honest, I was in a bad mood when I arrived. For days - weeks actually - I'd been feeling angsty. That's right - angsty. I'm sure it's a word. If it isn't, do you really want to argue with me at this point? Yeah. That's what I thought.
I'd feel hungry, go to the kitchen and not feel like eating. I'd feel lonely, call somebody and not want to talk. I'd feel bored and not want to move. Worse, I'd cry at stupid things. E-Harmony commercials, the candy aisle at the grocery store, my laundry hamper...all brought me to tears for some reason or another. Angsty.
Alex made me angsty. Still in love with this guy and feeling helpless because it's just not working. My diet plan was working better, which should really tell you something. I didn't know why, and I didn't know what to do about it. I was looking forward to a break, when I didn't have to wonder where he was or why I wasn't hearing from him - something that had become a bit of a hobby.
I suppose if you're reading this letter you may be wondering just who in the hell Alex is and why this guy would be so important. I wish I could tell you right now, but I'm probably seated in the backseat of a squad car and being advised by my lawyer not to say a word. I'll have to explain later - when I'm not so angsty. Or falsely accused.
Anyhoo. The holiday was to be a nice break, but apparently I don't stop being angsty just because I get on a bus for three hours through the snow, with no heat, seated next to some chick who spent the first hour and a half baby talking with her boyfriend on her cell phone, and the next hour and a half sleeping on my shoulder. The second hour and a half was actually preferable. Besides, it's not like I could get upset. I'd been told I'm very physically comfortable with pillow-like qualities.
Perhaps I wouldn't have noticed the changes to my parents living room decor if I wasn't feeling so delicate. Spaces normally filled with framed photos of my sister and I had been replaced by framed photos of babies. Somebody elses babies. Babies of family friends who are my age, who got married, and are now spawning. Duly noted.
Perhaps one of the lowest moments came when I discovered my Dad discovered how to search online using previous sites visited. There was a rather awkward silence as my Dad scrolled looking for something and came upon E-Harmony.
E-Harmony...? What in the...?? Oh...
Nothing says Happy Holidays like Dad discovering his daughter has an E-Harmony profile while a Scottish grandmother belches upstairs. I suppose it could have been worse, and I could have been surfing porn.
If you're reading this letter, I'm sorry for whatever terrible scene you must have come across to find it. It may have began with a certain family member insisting that we watch a Christmas movie starring Shannon Doherty, but I can't be certain anymore.
Regardless of what happened, I love my family though and I'm happy to be snowed in here of all places, angsty or not. But let's put our bets on angsty.
Merry Christmas everybody! And please call my lawyer.
Bambi
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