It's nice of you to ruin Christmas.

Dad.

I'm so mad. So so angry. He's unbelievable, he really is.

Every year. Every fucking year he has a tantrum about how we spend Christmas day with my mum, despite the fact that he doesn't celebrate Christmas, despite the fact that he's from a Muslim family. So every year, Parissa and I have to go up to his stupid flat and sit whilst he moans at us for hours about how its our fault Taraneh still isn't speaking to him, how it's our fault he lives like he does, how if we don't do something soon, he's going to go back to Iran (an empty threat).

So this year was no exception. We figured we'd go up Christmas night, go back Boxing day to see Dave's family and then, because it would be a Wednesday, go back to Dad's like we would normally. But no. He talked for hours and hours and hours on Sunday about how that was a really thoughtless plan and how we were just playing our mother's game and no one ever cared about him, when that's all we ever do. Me and Parissa spend our lives looking after him. It's like we have a child we never wanted.
So he talked and he talked and he talked. And we said we'd change our plan, just to shut him up, but he said no, stick to the plan you've already made.

And then today, Christmas day. 1pm. He rings me up. He sounds either drunk, stoned, or as if he's just woken up. And he talks to me normally. He asks me what time we're coming up, and I say "about 5". He doesn't say anything else, just asks to speak to Parissa. So I pass the phone over.
And I read my book.
After I finish my book, I want to send a text, but I can't find my phone. Then I realise Parissa had it; she was talking to Dad.
When she comes back, she's crying. She doesn't cry often.

So I ask what's going on.
She's swearing under her breath, cursing him.
He asked her what was going on today. She told him. She said, we're coming up later, then we're going home in the morning.
And he insisted that we didn't go home in the morning. That we stay with him from tonight until Thursday morning. You know, because otherwise, we are playing our mother's game. We are not thinking of him.
So I have to stay with him for a day and a half, and I don't get to go home tomorrow, or pick anything up. And it doesn't matter that Dave's family are coming round, or that I won't get to see Joe. He's my stepbrother. And I actually really like him. And I don't see him anymore, because he's at uni.
And we have to lie about it. We've already told mum and Dave we'd be there, but now we have to change that. And we can't tell them the truth because that would just start an argument, and really, we have enough to cope with.
And I'm so angry. And his whole thing is because of Taraneh, who's moping and sleeping and stinking up my bedroom, and SMOKING in my bedroom. I'm so furious. I'm always so furious, and I hate it. For once in my life, I'd like to feel a little less tense.

And it wouldn't be so bad if we actually did anything. If we were going to have a nice Christmassy time. Even a present might console me just a little bit.
But there's nothing.
No Christmas thing whatsoever. Because, of course, he doesn't celebrate Christmas.
We spent £30 on a fucking jumper, and he doesn't even deserve it.

He won't even let us relax. Even now, on Christmas day, he's talking. About how we're just not good enough. How we ought to do more for him. You know, because we don't run our lives around him as it is. I hate him right now. I really, physically detest him.

And he just won't shut up.
And I get so angry. So fucking angry, that I twitch. My whole body is itching to throw something at him- the glass, my phone, the computer mouse.

And to be honest, I'm not sure how much longer I can restrain myself for.

"All this time wasted being so good for you" -Function, by Denali