Peter Sellers
Taking time to acknowledge my almost dead, soulless sister. The institution has transformed her into a harsh, misguided teenager of a woman. Like a great vacuum pulled her away from me and kept on at her chest. All her giggly ways extracted. We get left with the irritable shell of a human. I liked her better when she was fucked up. I know what you’re thinking. That’s unnecessarily harsh. That is, in some way, ‘wrong’ for me to think this. Because she’s happy now? But she isn’t. She just isn’t sad anymore. Or crazy. She’s angry and immature instead. All she had to do, in my mind [naive as it is, I guess] was just stay close to me. Stop wandering off with these boys she called men but acted as mothers to. Take my advice because I’m a realist where she thinks she’s so fucking intelligent. I honestly just can’t be fucked anymore. Family may be family, but good company is such as well. My mother telling me about her first time on acid – “Peter sellers was sitting right next to me and I couldn’t stop laughing”. My mother telling me about her second time on acid – “I think what I had was… We used to call it a ‘bad trip’ in those days.” My mother on any kind of ailment I might be complaining about – “… You’re not pregnant, are you?” My mother on calling a psychic whilst under the influence – “Oh no, I can’t do this. She’ll know I’m drunk. She’s psychic!”
And me – “Well, if she’s psychic she’ll know you’re about to call anyway.”
