Big Sisters Are The Crab Grass In The Lawn Of Life…

It’s my big sister’s birthday, so I thought I would dedicate today’s entry to her. Although, by the time you reach her age, one would think she’d be tired of having birthdays by now, yet she stubbornly refuses to yield to the ravages of time and instead clings to her ever-diminishing vitality like an engorged tick feasting on the backside of a diseased and mangy junkyard dog. Sure, she’s a productive and responsible member of society as an elementary school teacher and a mother of three (four, if you count her Lost Boy husband), but she’s closer to retirement than me by three years – and that makes her a fully-vested, Geritol-popping member of the Seniors community in my eyes.

Since I clearly don’t ever care enough to send the very best to anyone, I’m avoiding the soul-shredding wordplay of Hallmark cards again this year. Instead, I thought it would be fun to take a brief trip down memory lane and share with the world my best – and worst – memories of my loving, aged sibling. Let’s begin!

My worst memory of Big Sis concerns a cruel and vicious children’s game of her invention that involved terrifying roleplaying and an unfair chase sequence, followed by unrepentant bloodshed and enhanced interrogation techniques, all couched in a high-level conspiracy that would have knife-wielding Roman senators nodding their approval.

You see, my sister and her best friend, our fiendish next-door neighbor, got it in their heads one summer’s day that it would be fun sport to toy with both my emotions and my capability to withstand inhuman amounts of both stress and pain. It began when they approached me and invited me to play with them. This being a rare and infrequent invitation, my still-developing six-year-old brain jumped at the opportunity, having not yet formed the required cynicism to recognize the dubious nature of their request for the vile and evil thing that it was.

The game, they decided, was gym class – and I would be their pupil. It was a simple, yet grueling curriculum they had in store for me, and all it required was that I be able to perform five-hundred jumping jacks without a microsecond’s pause between hops. I was six years old.

Being completely unaware of the murderous consequence of failure, I gave up somewhere around the two-hundred mark – much to the delight of my sister and her sinister partner-in-crime. As they produced between them two dangerous and terrible looking switches they’d taken the time to fashion (and hide) before approaching me, I saw where things were headed – and I ran. I ran as fast as my little six-year-old legs could carry me…which, as it turned out, wasn’t far enough.

Looking back, I might have been able to outrun them in a Forrest Gump footrace if I’d had enough open ground to put between us. As Fate would have it, however, I only managed to make it as far as the Demilitarized Zone of the busted-down old camper near our home. Due to there being all manner of tetanus-inducing bits of sharp metal protruding from every visible surface of the thing, the parents of the neighborhood decreed it a Forbidden Place, and children avoided it whenever possible. I, of course, ran straight towards and into its beastly, gaping maw of certain death.

Maybe I just wasn’t looking where I was going, or maybe I expected them not to follow me into the Briar Patch. Whatever the reason, I made a beeline for the thing and didn’t look back. Unfortunately, as I plunged forward, headfirst towards my doom, I wasn’t looking down, either. I tripped on the large, knotted remains of an ancient tree root and fell directly onto a suspicious looking piece of rusted reinforcing bar.

It tore at my tender flesh like some horrifying mythical beast, flaying open the skin of my leg to expose the terrible gleaming luster of my kneecap. I began to cry instantly, clutching at the flap of skin dangling impotently from my knee, while the blood poured through in an unrelenting wave of sticky red terror. My sister and her horrible little friend made their way to the edge of the Forbidden Place and just stood there, mouths agape in that special, horrifying way specific to childhood: they were in trouuuuuuble!

Let it never be said that my sister is not without the capacity for ruthless levels of resourcefulness. She scooped me up in an instant, and whisked me away to the far side of the front yard of our house, where I would be closest to our neighbor’s door and – more importantly – out of sight of our own parents’ wrath. She put me in a lawnchair, then like the short, effeminate Eichmann that she was, she ordered her friend to go inside her house and “Get the first aid!”

The “first aid” that her friend emerged with consisted of two things: bandages and rubbing alcohol. The whole time she spent inside her house, procuring these Tools Of The Inquisition, my sister spent by my side, lovingly convincing me that I had done a bad, bad thing. She would do her best to get me out of it, she said, but if our parents found out that I’d been running by that terrible camper, I’d be in serious trouble the likes of which my poor, innocent mind was incapable of comprehending. So, with her emphatic words of warning still ringing loud in my naive little ears, I gritted my teeth and did not cry as the hideous alcohol seared every exposed nerve ending in my little boy leg. I did not cry as she pulled the sad flap of skin back over my kneecap and secured it with a thousand tiny bandages that were each stuck, unstuck, and stuck again to cover the entirety of the abhorrent wound.

I bravely weathered the pain and, upon completion of the medical procedure, my sister’s friend quickly abandoned us for the safe comfort of her own, parent-less home. I gingerly stood up as she took my arm, helping me tragically limp towards our front door. She was reaching out to turn the knob to gain us entry when it flew open of its own accord, and we found our mother standing there, her disapproval towering over us like an angry storybook giant.

A mother’s way is not very sportsmanlike…

I managed to escape most of the punishment, after the severity of my injury came to light. My sister, however, was not so fortunate. I can’t remember exactly how she was punished, but since it didn’t involve subjecting her to an equal amount of intense, mind-numbing pain, I’ve always thought she got off light.

The best memory I have of my sister happened fairly recently, and is a much shorter story. While I was going through my divorce and still trying to exorcise the demonic terror that was my ex-wife, she told me a little story that I’d been hearing interesting variants of for quite some time. Basically, she recounted several of her interactions with my ex that caused her to draw the conclusion that I was making a Huge Mistake in deciding to marry the dreadful woman. However, rather than tell me about them at the time, she thought it best to keep quiet and let me head down the broken tracks of the Terror Express on my own.

I know, I should be upset with her for not exposing my ex for what she was sooner, but I’m not. I wouldn’t have listened at the time anyway, and she knew me well enough to know that if she had spoken up, I would have planted my feet and held firm on my course of ultimate destruction, just to spite her and her good-natured advice. I’m like that.

So, it was with a special sort of glee that I listened to her tell me all about how my ex was a waste of humanity, and about how the subject of her horribleness was an oft-discussed topic of conversation amongst my friends and family. Apparently, nobody I knew liked her from the start, and she had everyone asking the same question, “How’d she get him?!”

Nee Jabba no badda, bitch!

The answer to that question is interesting enough in itself, but I’ll save that for another time. For now, I take comfort in the fact that I’ve threatened to visit every close friend and family member with unmentionable horrors if they ever again try to shield me from the truth. As such, I’m confident in their unanimous, unwavering approval of Brittany. Sure, you might think that they’re just telling me what I want to hear again, but it’s worth noting that they never did that before. Back then, they just kept quiet or changed the subject.

Today, Brittany is already a part of the family, and has quickly formed an uncomfortable and sadistic bond with my beloved sibling. The two take great pride in teaming up together against the awesome power of my Ego, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to maintain my impressive levels of conceit against their formidable, unified assault.

So there you have it: the best and worst memories I have of my big sister. She’s been a persistent and irritating thorn in my side for thirty-four years, and a constant source of strength and support every day of my life. I love her and I hate her, and I miss no opportunity to belittle her efforts in life, as I chip away at the rock of her self-esteem whenever I can – but I’ll beat the snot out of anyone else who tries it. She’s my sister, dammit – and that’s what brothers are for!

Happy Birthday, Gretchen!

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NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

Humor | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?

Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?

If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.

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Short Stories
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The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.

Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.

Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.

Always get back up.

Gaming | Nonfiction
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This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.

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Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.

If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.

I'll try to not be boring.

Horror
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What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.

What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.

You've been warned.