The Cherry Pickers

hey guys, so this is a new story i've been working on, its more humour and craziness than normal, so if you like it vote and comment :D

ciao for now<- oh look im a poet and I dont even know it :D

roiskate out :D 

I like to imagine myself as a cheap Christmas cracker, not much to look at admittedly, but full of amazingly cool crap you would never have stumbled upon before. January, my cousin on the other hand, is more of a high class quality, all flashy wrapping and presents inside that let you down and make you think I shouldn't have gotten that one, all thoughts are thrown to the wind when next Christmas rolls around and the shiny wrapping catches your eye, before you know it you're back in a never ending cycle or disappointment and shiny shit.

Or maybe it's just me.

So why is it, if I can list all of January's bad qualities off the top of my head- did I agree to figuratively sell my soul to the devil?

Looking at the mass of my so called 'peers' looking at me eagerly ready to hang on my every word, while the one person I seemed to care about in my miserable life was looking at me like I had stabbed his heart out with a pencil and spent the day playing football, with it while January watched with a smug smile.

To think six months ago, I was happy in my own odd and completely off the wall world until the 6th of January came along bringing trouble with it- making me sign both my head and my heart on the dotted line. 

~

My stomach rumbled loudly throwing me unwillingly into the spot light once again. Looking around the large hall trying not to look at the elves dancing around the baby Jesus, something that is both biblically wrong but all round creepy- I gave up and watched my younger sister prance around on stage holding an ancient Baby born that had already peed on her Mary costume three times and counting since the longest hour of my life began.

I mean it was nothing personal, I just didn't like elves. It had started with a trip to the local 'Santa spot' in Ireland where I was originally from. Let me tell you, in Ireland the whole Santa's nice little helper's image goes out the window. They're mean, hormonal and more often than not the total opposite the cute little guy making ice skates in your mind.

I blame Will Ferrell for that personally.

Oh no, they are teenagers bored off their minds and vicious because of it. My particular 'demon' was a spotty, gangly teenage boy who had his tongue deep in a girl's mouth when my dad and I turned up to look for the mysterious and mythical 'Santa'.

Or maybe it was because it was the last time I was going to see my dad and my subconscious was telling me so, either way the elf and I got a little rumble in the jungle and I bit him. He had six stitches on his chin and claimed his modelling career was over.

Trust me; it was never going to begin.

Flash back to now. and here I am, surrounded by my own worst nightmare squirming in my seat while my half American half-sister pranced around trying to breastfeed a plastic doll while Joseph picked his nose. My stepfather Julian was tapping the whole thing while our mother was digging in her gigantic bag- one that would put Mary Poppin's wardrobe to shame, for a paper towel to stem the maternal tears. I was not surprised by the tears- the woman was a born hippy.

Whereas I on the other hand was bored, I mean it had been spruced up no doubt with a nifty little musical number where Santa serenades Mary through her perilous labour reminding me how seriously they took it here in LA rather than the shed like 'stage' I preformed my six year old nativity scene eleven years ago.