My “Brother” replied to my alleged “attack” from my previous entry.
P.s, i apologised in advanced for poor spelling error. gross, i know…but i tried. well, probably not hard enough
My response to my brother will be simple.
I don’t know you. Really. I really don’t.
And I’m so glad I don’t because really, who are you again?
Oh, so just because he was born earlier, lived longer, that makes his opinions credible?
I mean, who is he? A brother? Really? One who would prioritise his friend’s housewarming party over his brother in hospital? One who’d rather disappear to Thailand for some promiscuous fun while my mom (his mom too you know) suffers from unbearable pain caused by multiple cysts in liver? One who’s never ever asked about his sibling’s schoolwork, his dad’s inability to pay for bills because we have his handphone bills to settle too. Our dad postponed his physio to pay for your trip to Germany. I bet you didn’t know that! You were too busy cracking walnuts, frolicking in snow while daddy overlooks and miscounts his glucosamine supplements. In pain.
My brother — One who’d demand for food at home, leftovers royally for him, money from our mother. The same money to buy his freaking fags out of the money earned by my mother, after washing someone’s toilet. Yeah. My brother’s the same brother who’d throw a tantrum if he’s not allowed to visit Germany out of pure unnecessary irresponsible fun. The same brother whom I spent money and time and effort for a birthday barbecue party, and not even remember my birthday. The same brother who’d say, “So sad huh.” when I was asking for an ounce of comfort from CPT Ho’s demise. The same brother who would yell at my mom if she asks him about his whereabouts and the same brother who’d yell at my parents if they asked him if he’s coming home that night, so that my mom can leave some dinner for him (So that she won’t get yelled, but whatever right?) He’s the same brother who’d throw a fit when I didn’t buy his tickets and made my mom pay for his concert tickets. (After which he disappeared because concert and friends trump family.) The same brother who thinks my anorexia was a phase, and still think it is. The same brother who’d tear and overstretch and seriously, pretend to not wear my clothes, when he did. The one who’d steal my food from the fridge and share the loot with his pathetic pissheads. The one who expects the family and I to support his lost cause for arts. The one who’s so angry for himself for being the way he is. Brother, I pity you. And your conveniences. And your choice of words. And your denial.
It’s easy for you to say DEAL WITH IT. It really is. But what is dealing with it? Do you know? Do you know what you’re saying or doing? Going out and be all promiscuous? Cohabit? What is doing something right? Do you even know what right is brother? What? You’re living by example? I’ve to clean your shit in front of the paternals. They drop the nastiest bombs about you. It’s embarrassing to hear them say all that but really, at whose expense? Yours? You barely know us, what more them. We pay for your actions and right choices. Our pride is shaken. We try to be brave for you, we stand up for you but you’re acting like it all doesn’t matter. You don’t care about how they make us feel because of you. You make them treat us like trash. But aren’t you refuse? Garbage for making us feel this way and God forbid, not know about how you make us feel? It’s nothing, but we lose gravely and they win and you just don’t care about how much we’re struggling right? I mean, why bother? You have your worthy friends with kittens and batiks and money. You’re not in their circle, brother. And you’re losing in this family circle unless you just start caring.
You bombard me with such grandeur bombastic furore of words which were poorly spelt. They came from the shitholes. Not the pretty, shiny glorious moral ground which you think you’re in. You’re so full of shit, your eyes are brown. You’re stuck in puddles of shit, waist-deep, so stop fluttering around like Mariah Carey’s butterfly in folds of shit.
It’s disgusting, really. I am so embarrassed for you. I don’t think I’m fucking with the family with my problems. I remember being self-sufficient, whiny, depressed, but always independent. I don’t need a passe of friends to trump over a family which doesn’t care about me. I don’t even care, really. I don’t even care if they talk about my disorders, my problems because I never do. I never ever confide to you (What a joke.) or my parents and I will only tell them about what they really need to know. Well you? You’re dumb enough to cover the top of the bowl while the cracks beneath spill the soup. You say I love you, and your eyes flash money. You say I love you, and then you mingle with expats and friends who just know you’re in arts to impress a mediocre, underachieving skill which you claim you have interest and talent in.
You think I’m living in pretense? Maybe I am fake. The world is fake, but you’re so real. Really.
Oh. I’ll see you at home!(never) ”
“Please lower your noise volume after 11.00pm”