Why me?

How come I am the one who ends up with the big family secret? I am clearly the least suited person in the world to be entrusted with a big big secret, yet here I am, the one with this big steaming turd of a secret dumped in my lap. Thanks a fucking bunch.

I blame Pascalle for her stupidity in telling me. You’d think, after all these years and all the times in the past where she’s spilled the beans and I have; (a) tortured her and (b) profited from it, that she would know better. But clearly not, as the giant turd in my lap will testify.

I have suspected for some time that Pascalle has the brain of a goldfish, and I now know this to be true. She has clearly forgotten all those times when she begged me not to tell Mum when I caught her sneaking out to root some boy, yet – strangely – Mum would always be waiting for her when she snuck in. She has clearly forgotten the incident where the photos I found of her and Corinna Balani pashing on a dare and which I swore I would never show to anyone, somehow strangely ended up on notice-boards all over Shadbolt High.

Pascalle, obviously, is an idiot who has forgotten that the ‘Wests never dob’ rule applies only to our dealings with the police and other authority figures. Within the walls of West-world if you have knowledge of a secret, then it is your right to use that secret to gain something over your rival/sister/bother/other family member. Pascalle, therefore, deserves everything she gets for kindly sharing her big secret with me.

If I tell, that is.

Shit.

Normally, the good thing about secrets ending up in your lap is that there is a way to profit from them.

But with this secret, I’m not seeing where the profit is in it.

Not yet, anyway.

It’s always nice when family comes to visit.

Who am I kidding? Of course it’s not – especially not when it’s my family.

My Aunty Mandy, aka The Mauler, dropped in for a visit this week. Cost me a bloody fortune in the end, keeping my husband out of her clutches. Bitch.

Just to explain, they call her The Mauler because she will throw herself, on her back, with her legs open, in front of any man she sets her sights on. And let me tell you she isn’t fussy about which man she chooses to maul – especially when she’s pissed.

Actually, I tell a lie, because Mandy usually sets her sights on one bloke: Dad. It’s only after she’s struck out with him that she takes out her frustrations on the next bloke she sees. She’s not fussy who they are, as long as they are breathing and have a penis. And given the levels of sexual desperation of most of the men this family knows, there’s usually a queue to be the bloke standing closest to Wolf when he fends off Mandy’s advances for the umpteenth time. Ew.

One of the few things I still sort of love about my father (and trust me, there aren’t many) is how he’s always managed to say no to Mandy. Even when he and Mum had had the hugest fights and Mum had stormed out of the house telling him to “do whatever the fuck you want”, and then Mandy would plant herself in his path with her white trash take-me-now charms on display, somehow he’d say no when it would have been much easier to say yes. I’m not sure how he resisted all these years, but it is kind of honourable of him – in a fucked up way.

I guess Wayne must have the same honourable blood flowing in his veins because, apparently, he also said no to the easiest lay this side of Corrina Balani. There was nothing stopping him – what with Mum being inside and everything – but he didn’t go there. Go Wayne, what a Saint!

But Mandy has gone now, to spread her love (and her legs) in other parts of the world, and things have returned to normal.

I like normal – long may normal last, I say.

I will admit that, in the past, I have had certain issues when it comes to sex. But when you have a sex-obsessed big sister and thanks to her (and her parade of ‘boyfriends’ or ‘fresh meat for the grinder’ as we used to call them) you learn, at a tender age, way way more about sex than you really ever need to know in your entire life, is it really that surprising?
And even today, yes, there are plenty of things I do not get about sex – mainly the things I really don’t want to do; have done to me; or to watch being done to others. For these things I have Angel and as long as she brings me the money men pay her for these things, then I’m good right there. No need for any more information.

But what I get now, that I never used to get, is how useful sex is as a means of social control. Men, it would seem, do not think with their dicks – because when the dick gets involved all thinking stops – but they are controlled by their dicks. Seriously, you can get a guy to do anything if: (a) the guy is horny enough; or (b) the guy has kinda weird things going on in his head when it comes to sex. You find these guys and push the right buttons and they will do anything for you.
This is genius. This makes me realise that at Loretta’s we are sitting on a gold mine – or, rather, we have a bunch of hard working women (and Angel) who sit on gold-mines for me! Not only are they capable of bringing in cash money, we’re also saving a fortune on the refit of the building thanks to their special charms. I love this game!

So anyone out there who has a problem with sex and plenty of it? Too bad! Sex is good; sex makes the world go round; we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for sex!

Go sex!

And if you want extra special sex, try Loretta’s – opening soon. We will cater to your every need and some needs you probably didn’t even know you had. All major credit cards accepted, but a discount for cash in the hand.

I actually do love my Grandfather. Christ knows why. He’s an annoying old prick most of the time and his continued attachment to his hag wife defies belief; plus his personal hygiene standards leave a lot to be desired. But despite all this I still sort of love the old prick – and that is really saying something coming from me.

But Grandpa crossed a line the other day, that no matter how I feel about him, he had no right to cross.

He took sides with the Greegans against this family. He chose to help them and in doing so he fucked with the rest of us. And that is not on.

He’ll argue that he did it for Pascalle – to reunite her with the man she thought she loved (though she seems to have kinda changed her mind about that, after he tried to kidnap her) – but in doing so he risked bringing the shit down on our heads at precisely the time when we don’t need any more shit raining down upon us.

Look, I have no problem with my family helping out those who are trying to avoid custodial sentences at the hands of the law. Hell, when I was growing up there were always Dad’s ‘associates’ hiding out downstairs for a day or two on their way to somewhere else. Shit, I used to have to take them cups of tea and toast for breakfast!

Take our close family friend (and borderline psycho) Sparky, for example. He’s still out there somewhere after his prison escape. I would have no problem sheltering Sparky in our house should he wash up on our doorstep – as long as he didn’t burn it down and he stayed as far away from my personal space as possible.

But these are the Grogans we’re talking about here. They stole from me. (Well, they stole from Pascalle, to be 100% correct, but given that eventually, inevitably her money would have found its way to me, I regard it as stealing from me.) They are our sworn enemies! They should be given no assistance – especially that baby-stealing cot-case Sheree.

Grandpa will argue that he had no idea Sheree was involved. Excuse me, old man, but wake the fuck up. Sheree and Nicky are sick freaks who you couldn’t separate with a bucket of cold water and a crowbar. So of course she was always involved, and by helping him you automatically help her. Idiot!

(It should be noted that Sheree has only ever done one good thing in her rotten life – shooting Aaron Spiller in the arse. Hilarious!)

So then Judd got all manly on it and kicked Grandpa out and he hasn’t been seen back here since.

And I did nothing to stop it.

Because I think my Grandfather deserves to learn a lesson about loyalty and priorities.

He’ll come crawling back soon enough, wheedling about being wronged. Then he’ll show some minor act of contrition and Judd will relent and Grandpa’s scrawny arse will be back in his fetid chair.

But until that day, at least the house smells better.

I think I’m going to pack this blogging thing in, on the grounds that it seems to be a complete and utter waste of my time – time, I might add, that I really do not have right at this moment.

I started this blog under duress, too many years ago to count now. It was suggested this might be a therapeutic outlet for some ‘anger issues’ I apparently had. What the fuck is wrong with anger anyway? What kind of fucked up world would it be if we’re all meant to march around with happy smiles on our faces (probably because we’re all drugged up to the eyeballs) being nice to each other? Fuck that. Anger is healthy; anger means we’re still alive and breathing. Anger is human.

Okay, so that proves the reason I started this blog is still there. I haven’t been ‘cured’; it hasn’t made me a different, more socially acceptable person. I am still, very much, me. So there’s reason number one not to bother with this blog any more.

There was a brief period there, once upon a time, when I actually enjoyed writing this. I kinda grew to like sharing my views on my fucked up family with my fellow social retards in cyber-world. And, believe it or not, I actually enjoyed it when my fellow retards played the game and shared their view of the world back at me. Sure, I would often mock said views from the privacy of my own bedroom, but that was just adding more fun elements to the game.

But now I ping these occasional missives out into the ether and what do I get back? Nothing. I get no comments, no arguments, no death threats – not even a deeply disturbed cyber-stalker wanting me to send him/her my soiled panties. Nope, I get nothing but silence – which is no fun at all and, quite frankly, I don’t do anything unless there is something in it for me.

So unless there are signs of life from out there; unless someone gives me something to sink my teeth into, that’s it for me – I’m done, I’m gone, I’m going back to the real world to get my kicks.

Besides, I have plenty of other things to be going on with – like having a brothel to open, for example; somewhere I can fence in all my useless slapper employees so I can punish them more easily when they piss me off.

See? Much more fun to be had in that than here in blogland.

Over and out,
Loretta West