"What do you want for Christmas?" my mother says.

"Nah," I say. "It's alright. I don't want anything."

"Oh come on," she says. "You must want something for Christmas?"

"Nah. I don't need anything."

"What about clothes? Money? Name it."

"I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" she says. "Anything?"

"Sure I'm sure I don't need anything." What part of my language do you not understand?

"Okay. If you need anything just tell me."

When I got back home my mother was gone. On my study table there's this thing wrapped in plastic: a silver crucifixion.

Holy shit.

On my bookshelf there's this wall clock with a background of Jesus and his disciples.

Holy shit.

I should've just asked for something. A book. The Freedom Manifesto.

Instead of all these garbage.

I hate clocks, if you mind. The sound of it drives me nuts. I don't want to know the time. I don't want to know what day it is. Or where I am.

And Ma, I have no religion. I have no gods. Please respect that.

Jesus Christ is grand. He's the ultimate hippie, idler, and vagabond, but humans bastardized his image and turned him into a god.

She wouldn't understand.

"Do you want the clock?" I tell Mindtwist. "You can have it." Then I continue with, "Cos if you're not taking it I'm throwing it away."

"What?" he says. "I'm not keeping anything from your mother. You should keep it. Put it in your closet or something. I mean, it's from your mother. Give the gift a little respect at least."

So what if it's from my mother? I came out of her body, so what? If I wasn't here I wouldn't even recognize that fact.

I mean: so freaking what?

"Right," I tell him.

But still, I gave the clock away. Better to have someone else use it than keep it rotting in my closet.

Word did you say?

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