Today was another installment of "I Love My Sister Day."
Here, a compilation of some of our conversations:
1.
Listening to Adele's CD as we drive around the city, we talk about how much we love the songs (and how her ex-boyfriend deserves a Grammy for inspiring so many painful songs). The CD gets to "One and Only."
You've been on my mind
I grow fonder every day.
Lose myself in time
Just thinking of your face.
God only knows
Why it's taking me so long
To let my doubts go.
You're the only one that I want.
Me: I fucking love this song.
Sister: Fuck yeah. It's awesome. There's just one part that pisses me off.
Me: Oh dang. "Pisses you off?" Shit. Why?
Sister: This fucking part right here...
I dare you to let me be your,
your one and only.
Promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove that I'm the one who can
Walk that mile until the end starts.
Sister: You don't have to tell a guy YOU'RE "worthy." Fuck that nigga! He should already KNOW!
Me: ... Yeah.... you have a point. Fuck that shit!
Sister: "Promise I'm worthy".... get the fuck outta here!
My lovely sister, once again talking sense into my retarded head (and here, a clear example of how you can take the girls out the ghetto... and give them bachelor degrees... but you can't take the ghetto out the girls).
2.
We decided to hit Nordstrom in search for our goddaughter's Christmas gift.
We were in the shoe department, and decided on some cute little Toms.
We stood around, looking for some goddamn sales associate asshole to notice us, but they acted as if we were invisible (I fucking love that shit. LOVE IT. Fucking racial profiling snobby pieces of shit. YOU WORK RETAIL! GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, DICKFACE! But thats me going on a tangent, so let's get back to the story).
Instead of getting angry and knocking all the fucking shoe displays off the tables, I decided to make myself comfortable on their nice "leather" couches... dangling my chuck-rockin' foot off the armrest.
Sister stood, arms crossed, Tom shoe dangling on her right index finger, a second "sales associate" (aka SHOE-SALESMAN, bitch! YOU SELL SHOES FOR A LIVING! GET OFF YOUR FUCKING HIGH HORSE!) walked past her.
Sister: Do these motherfuckers work for commission here?
Me: Yup.
Sister: Mother. FUCKER! It's the fucking curly hair (she had done her hair curly, style she dislikes).
A third shoe-salesfucker passes her without acknowledging her.
Sister: I'LL TAKE ONE IN EVERY COLOR, biiiiitch!
I sit up and look around... slightly embarrassed.
Sister: How do these motherfuckers know I'm not going to go off and buy one of every style? Miss out on a massive commission. Pricks.
Me: No cuesta nada soñar (it's free to dream).
3.
Talking about nicknames. It started off by me complaining over how half the female population has my nickname (really, Mariah Carey? "Mimi?" They get "Mimi" out of "Mariah"? Shut the fuck up. Don't get me started on Mandi Moore), hence my aversion to it.
Me: You know who else's nickname I hate? Mike's.
Sister: Ugh.
Me: Seriously. How the fuck did they come up with it? How the hell do you even say it without feeling stupid? (His nickname sounds like the spanish term for "poop")
Sister: Shut up. You know what I'd feel stupid about? Writing that gay-ass Christmas card of yours.
Me: I shouldn't have listened to you and written how YOU really feel.
Dear Poopy-face,
I can't eat, sleep, laugh, talk, or shit without thinking of you... I mean, your name says it all.
You're everywhere... your six-foot-six (she corrected me on this. Originally I thought he was 6'4" but turns out I was two inches off) frame I see in everything... like doorways and graveyard undertakers.
Your ringtone ID on my phone makes everyone turn around and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. It annoys everyone and I risk getting punched in the face, but I put up with it because you're SO FUCKIN' AWESOME.
When you text me, I laugh like a hyena who has stumbled upon an abandoned, but freshly killed wildebeest carcass in the Serengeti. The Serengeti... a much warmer place than that frigid tundra known as "Chicago" that I'm so adamant about moving to this upcoming spring.
I have already named our future first five babies.
I hope they have your sleepy, radioactive-green colored eyes.
You're SO fucking hot... even when you call me all those lame, stereotypical names like "Hermosa" and "linda." From you... they sound like poetry.
You are so fucking hot.
Love you, always and FOREVER!
D!
Sister: Fuck you.
Always a fun time with that bratty poopy-face.
Here, a compilation of some of our conversations:
1.
Listening to Adele's CD as we drive around the city, we talk about how much we love the songs (and how her ex-boyfriend deserves a Grammy for inspiring so many painful songs). The CD gets to "One and Only."
You've been on my mind
I grow fonder every day.
Lose myself in time
Just thinking of your face.
God only knows
Why it's taking me so long
To let my doubts go.
You're the only one that I want.
Me: I fucking love this song.
Sister: Fuck yeah. It's awesome. There's just one part that pisses me off.
Me: Oh dang. "Pisses you off?" Shit. Why?
Sister: This fucking part right here...
I dare you to let me be your,
your one and only.
Promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove that I'm the one who can
Walk that mile until the end starts.
Sister: You don't have to tell a guy YOU'RE "worthy." Fuck that nigga! He should already KNOW!
Me: ... Yeah.... you have a point. Fuck that shit!
Sister: "Promise I'm worthy".... get the fuck outta here!
My lovely sister, once again talking sense into my retarded head (and here, a clear example of how you can take the girls out the ghetto... and give them bachelor degrees... but you can't take the ghetto out the girls).
2.
We decided to hit Nordstrom in search for our goddaughter's Christmas gift.
We were in the shoe department, and decided on some cute little Toms.
We stood around, looking for some goddamn sales associate asshole to notice us, but they acted as if we were invisible (I fucking love that shit. LOVE IT. Fucking racial profiling snobby pieces of shit. YOU WORK RETAIL! GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, DICKFACE! But thats me going on a tangent, so let's get back to the story).
Instead of getting angry and knocking all the fucking shoe displays off the tables, I decided to make myself comfortable on their nice "leather" couches... dangling my chuck-rockin' foot off the armrest.
Sister stood, arms crossed, Tom shoe dangling on her right index finger, a second "sales associate" (aka SHOE-SALESMAN, bitch! YOU SELL SHOES FOR A LIVING! GET OFF YOUR FUCKING HIGH HORSE!) walked past her.
Sister: Do these motherfuckers work for commission here?
Me: Yup.
Sister: Mother. FUCKER! It's the fucking curly hair (she had done her hair curly, style she dislikes).
A third shoe-salesfucker passes her without acknowledging her.
Sister: I'LL TAKE ONE IN EVERY COLOR, biiiiitch!
I sit up and look around... slightly embarrassed.
Sister: How do these motherfuckers know I'm not going to go off and buy one of every style? Miss out on a massive commission. Pricks.
Me: No cuesta nada soñar (it's free to dream).
3.
Talking about nicknames. It started off by me complaining over how half the female population has my nickname (really, Mariah Carey? "Mimi?" They get "Mimi" out of "Mariah"? Shut the fuck up. Don't get me started on Mandi Moore), hence my aversion to it.
Me: You know who else's nickname I hate? Mike's.
Sister: Ugh.
Me: Seriously. How the fuck did they come up with it? How the hell do you even say it without feeling stupid? (His nickname sounds like the spanish term for "poop")
Sister: Shut up. You know what I'd feel stupid about? Writing that gay-ass Christmas card of yours.
Me: I shouldn't have listened to you and written how YOU really feel.
Dear Poopy-face,
I can't eat, sleep, laugh, talk, or shit without thinking of you... I mean, your name says it all.
You're everywhere... your six-foot-six (she corrected me on this. Originally I thought he was 6'4" but turns out I was two inches off) frame I see in everything... like doorways and graveyard undertakers.
Your ringtone ID on my phone makes everyone turn around and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. It annoys everyone and I risk getting punched in the face, but I put up with it because you're SO FUCKIN' AWESOME.
When you text me, I laugh like a hyena who has stumbled upon an abandoned, but freshly killed wildebeest carcass in the Serengeti. The Serengeti... a much warmer place than that frigid tundra known as "Chicago" that I'm so adamant about moving to this upcoming spring.
I have already named our future first five babies.
I hope they have your sleepy, radioactive-green colored eyes.
You're SO fucking hot... even when you call me all those lame, stereotypical names like "Hermosa" and "linda." From you... they sound like poetry.
You are so fucking hot.
Love you, always and FOREVER!
D!
Sister: Fuck you.
Always a fun time with that bratty poopy-face.
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