There are certain phrases I keep hearing throughout my life, such as “You’re not welcome here.” And then I appeal for help and I hear, “You’ve put me in a very awkward position.”
The themes of my life — provocation, estrangement, rejection, reconciliation — replay themselves endlessly. The record of my life is stuck on the turnstile.
Today was no different from Gavin Brown’s birthday party in second grade when I was not invited and then my friend’s mom intervened on my behalf and then the other kids let me know, “We didn’t want you here. We were forced.”
My therapist suggested I call my memoir, “The Uninvited.”
D. emails: I’ll put you in an awkward position, you little ponce!
Here we go again. My fair-dinkum lad — Sunny Jim as I call him — whinges and cries on his ridiculous “blog” that he’s “the uninvited.” There’s a reason for that, you bloody little cretin: You act like the back-end of a wombat and most people don’t like it. Stop making excuses for yourself and try to act like a normal, decent human being. Stop being a self-centered narcissist. Stop acting like a fair-dinkum sheila! I may be old, but I’m not too old to shove a cane toad in your mouth and give you a bloody wallop in the jaw with a cricket bat. And your email boyfriend Greg Leake? You go right ahead and take his advice to learn the manly art of boxing. There may be snow on my roof, but I’ll still knock you two poofters to the ground with one hand tied behind my back. That Mr. Leake writes you emails as if you were somebody who had something of value to say, boggles the mind. He’s a bigger drongo than you, mate. I tried to set you right when you were a wee little joey. Look how you’ve turned out. Go take a hard stare in a mirror, “Levi.” You’re a fraud, a layabout, a good-for-nothing excuse of a son. Now, your brother Paul? There’s a lad! If only I had throttled you at birth.
