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Fucking hell.   Get this.   Killing Amelia could well be the best fucking thing I’d ever done.


Only – Py isn’t so sure she’s dead.   Which should make him happy, shouldn’t it?   I mean, he’d just told me that he’d wanted to kill her himself – and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t meaning metaphorically.

So if Amelia is somehow the Michael Myers or Terminator II of the vampire world, and is determined to bring recurring meaning to the phrase “undead”, Py should be fucking delighted, right?

But he wasn’t.   He strode into the house, wrote this lame-ass announcement on my blog (because I’d be too fucking slow logging out earlier), took over my Twitter account and posted various messages in the same vein, and ended in breaking my laptop in two when people kept trying to talk back to him online.   Seriously.  Yanked it from the wall socket, held it out at arm’s length, and snapped the whole things in half, like he was closing a – well, a notebook.


And he did all this without saying another word to me.   For the rest of that night and the next day.   And I’m meant to be the bloody juvenile here?   Fuck, man.   Though okay – yes.   I’ll admit it.   I didn’t handle the situation so well after that point.   I tried to reason with him for a few hours.   Nup.   Then I tried to goad or insult him into a response.   Accomplished shit all.   Then I rampaged around the house a bit for a few hours, and tore into some stuff to get a reaction.   Nothing.

By this time, performance art aside, I was actually pissed off myself.   Centre of attention sure, but I still had no idea what was going on here – Py wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t let me go online, wouldn’t let me leave (school wasn’t an option that day).  

Hell.   Where was the fun in having done something so fucking inciting and incendiary if I couldn’t enjoy the results of my handiwork – because I wasn’t really sure what I’d achieved?




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