Right this second my brother is on a plane to Paris. He made straight A's last semester at his private university. I flunked retard biology at my sub-standard school. So I don't go to Paris to learn to be a great writer like him. I go to work to a job that I hate, to work for people who hate me because I don't bother to hide the fact that I hate them. (did that make sense?)
There is nothing like siblings to make you feel sorry for yourself is there? I love my brother, I really do. It took me twenty years but I love him now. When they brought him home I was three and was like, "what the fuck is this? I asked Santa for a puppy, not a baby brother. Take it back." My parents would not return the baby for a dog. They put him in a crib and he set about fucking up my master plan. He does it for spite I think, just for kicks. Currently he is a senior at the school I was supposed to go to. The one my dad told me he wasn't paying 28 grand a year to ship me off too. It didn't matter. I got sick in high school. Really sick. And I went to the picture of inner city public school, shipped in from the suburbs with a bunch of other rich white kids to raise the test scores. I had no chance of getting in anyway. Oh but the boy did. He went to a good high school. It's on that list in Newsweek this week, one of the best in the nation. He is worth 28 grand a year. And what was the profession that young Tuesday picked for herself? I wanted to be a writer...or kick Daphne out of the scooby gang and hook up with them, driving around in a van, solving mysteries. As it turns out there is no such thing as talking dogs. It was a sad day when I figured that out. So I decided to be a writer. I used to write stories with my mom's old typewriter, by jr. high I was pumping out hundred plus page novels of sorts. But some where around twenty years old I once again discovered that great danes don't talk and gave it up because, honestly, I was really bad. My boyfriend wouldn't even read it. I'm okay with it now. (although if any of you ever run into a dog that talks, I demand that you call me) So what does little brother do with his spare time. He not only writes but he publishes, in journals, 'new writer' collections, he even had a zine for a while before he was banned from kinko's for fucking with his little page counter box. Now he goes to Paris because he's such a great writer and such a great student.
The question is what do I do? Do I sit here and feel sorry for myself?
No. Because he may have those stupid things I wanted like an expensive education and talent but I have things far better. I have friends and I have love. (also, baby brother, I have a really cool car and you don't because you smashed up your pretty little Blazer so much daddy took it away) But most importantly, I have freedom. I don't need daddy's money. So I don't need his approval. I can tattoo and pierce my cold little heart out. I can smoke all the pot in the world. I can write my bad little musings in spiral notebooks no one will ever see because I don't need critical success.
Everyone grab a beer and join me in a toast. To being the blackest of black sheep, to not giving a fuck what anyone else thinks, to living life.
There is nothing like siblings to make you feel sorry for yourself is there? I love my brother, I really do. It took me twenty years but I love him now. When they brought him home I was three and was like, "what the fuck is this? I asked Santa for a puppy, not a baby brother. Take it back." My parents would not return the baby for a dog. They put him in a crib and he set about fucking up my master plan. He does it for spite I think, just for kicks. Currently he is a senior at the school I was supposed to go to. The one my dad told me he wasn't paying 28 grand a year to ship me off too. It didn't matter. I got sick in high school. Really sick. And I went to the picture of inner city public school, shipped in from the suburbs with a bunch of other rich white kids to raise the test scores. I had no chance of getting in anyway. Oh but the boy did. He went to a good high school. It's on that list in Newsweek this week, one of the best in the nation. He is worth 28 grand a year. And what was the profession that young Tuesday picked for herself? I wanted to be a writer...or kick Daphne out of the scooby gang and hook up with them, driving around in a van, solving mysteries. As it turns out there is no such thing as talking dogs. It was a sad day when I figured that out. So I decided to be a writer. I used to write stories with my mom's old typewriter, by jr. high I was pumping out hundred plus page novels of sorts. But some where around twenty years old I once again discovered that great danes don't talk and gave it up because, honestly, I was really bad. My boyfriend wouldn't even read it. I'm okay with it now. (although if any of you ever run into a dog that talks, I demand that you call me) So what does little brother do with his spare time. He not only writes but he publishes, in journals, 'new writer' collections, he even had a zine for a while before he was banned from kinko's for fucking with his little page counter box. Now he goes to Paris because he's such a great writer and such a great student.
The question is what do I do? Do I sit here and feel sorry for myself?
No. Because he may have those stupid things I wanted like an expensive education and talent but I have things far better. I have friends and I have love. (also, baby brother, I have a really cool car and you don't because you smashed up your pretty little Blazer so much daddy took it away) But most importantly, I have freedom. I don't need daddy's money. So I don't need his approval. I can tattoo and pierce my cold little heart out. I can smoke all the pot in the world. I can write my bad little musings in spiral notebooks no one will ever see because I don't need critical success.
Everyone grab a beer and join me in a toast. To being the blackest of black sheep, to not giving a fuck what anyone else thinks, to living life.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
demigauge:
*licks*
inkvisitor:
toasts, hugs and kisses! 
