the dwight schrute to my jim halpert

My sister likes to run her mouth about how tragic her childhood was. To hear her tell it, I was a hag of Cruella De Vil proportions.

Let me tell you something.

My sister, precocious young thing that she was, used to look me up and down when I came to the breakfast table in the morning, and rudely ask "You're wearing THAT to school?". I know that body suits with snap buttons at the crotch, plaid flannels, and chunky-heeled black canvas sneakers with knee-high socks don't sound entirely fashionable, but it was the early nineties, so, you know... shut the fuck up.

It's pretty irritating when you're trying your best to be accepted by your moody, Nirvana-listening teen peers, only to be harshly critiqued by a four year old sporting a denim sailor dress and a mushroom cut.

She also had the habit of stealing shit from me and squirelling it away for safe-keeping. I, being wise to her thieving ways, would then find it in her room and confront her with the evidence. You know what she did? LIED TO MY FUCKING FACE ABOUT IT. Like my Janet Jackson tape leapt out of my ghettoblaster, waltzed down the hall and into her toy box, and then unspooled itself of it's own goddamn volition. I DON'T THINK SO.

These are only two examples of the crimes she commited against me, and I have a lot more where they came from. Anything that I allegedly did to her was certainly very much deserved. Except for that time I tore a pivotal page out of her copy of Prisoner of Azkaban, for reasons I can't even remember. That may have been an over-reaction on my part.