Sibling revelry
My little(st) sister thinks I'm strange.
She gravitates towards painfully girly playthings and satellite TV. She orbits my parents like a reckless planet. When I'm on the piano, she'll be there, demanding and accusing. I want to play. No I don't want to read. When I tiptoe upstairs to the computer to try and escape her, she'll suddenly be there, somehow, like she seeped up through the floor and materialized in a bundle of hyperactive petulance. I want to play. No I don't want to do my work. She's an infantile Houdini, escaping from locked rooms and tottering stacks of homework, trailing Barbie dolls and echolalia all over the house.
She complains incessantly when she's left out of conversations. Yesterday, my habitual scrawls of thoughts on scrap paper were invaded by her indignation. Like so:
I enjoy confusing her, and she thinks I'm strange. But we get along just fine.