A dysfunctional family Christmas

Nobody's family is perfect, I don't care what you say. In our country the divorce rate is 50%, but if your parents stayed together they probably hate each other as much as mine do. If your parents don't hate each other after 30 years of marriage, I'll bet you have an alcoholic aunt, or an uncle who likes to dress as your aunt. No matter what your family's story is, you love the crazy bastards! But after 5 days with my family I remember why I moved out in the first place (read future blog; "WHY INDEPENDENCE SUCKS").
My family is your typical Christian family; prude mom, father that used to have long hair and ride a motorcycle, oldest daughter who's not allowed to do anything growing up because dad used to be a ladies-man, and the 2 sons who get away with murder. Now throw in the fact that the family is multi-racial and they become not-so-typical. My family thinks that being multi-racial gives you a free pass to make fun of every race, religion, gender, sexual preference, body type, and age under the sun. Take my aunt for example. My family loves to make fun of the fact that she's morbidly obese. The woman is a reverend in our church. YOU CAN'T MAKE FUN OF A WOMAN OF GOD. But for some reason the entire family thinks it's funny to make fun of a woman that walks with a cane, has asthma, type II diabetes, and has never had a boyfriend in her entire life. That is seriously twisted. And they love to pick on me. I am tall, with light skin, green/hazel-ish eyes, and blonde hair that I dye darker so that I sort of look like a member of our family. Had I known growing up that these are traits that people actually consider attractive, it would have saved me a lot of grief. As if being a teenager wasn't hard enough, my family tormented me. I'll save the emotional trauma for another blog, but here's a small list of nicknames that my family gave me:
- Big bird (the height)
- Miss Piggy (the blonde hair)
-Rosie Perez (because I'm lighter than the rest of the family)
- Broke-ass Mariah Carey (self-explanatory)
Anyways, after the first few days of being home I felt a tremedous wave of guilt because I wanted to actually harm my family. The thoughts that were going through my mind were simply barbaric. They say you don't really love someone unless you've thought about choking them, so apparently I REALLY love my family.
Every kid wants to run away from their family when they are little, but money, shelter, and food usually prevent them from doing so. But now I can just jump in my car and drive 4 hours to my new home to be away from them. So why did I miss them the minute I got in my car to leave? Every day since I left I've caught myself gazing at our family picture in our Christmas sweaters. No matter how ignorant, mean, or just plain rude my family is, they will always be my family. Damn I love those crazy bastards....