I hate my baby brother. No, I don't think I
hate him. I abhor him. He steals my ballpens, pours indelible ink on my CAT han
I've accumulated twenty demerits), gleefully turns my Trigo notebook
into a coloring book (you guessed it, I'm flunking Trigo), and continually eats my entire
stash of junk food in eight minutes flat. And to think all of that happens on a biweekly
basis (every Sunday and Wednesday). Baby brothers were made to plague the lives of sisters
and siblings alike. Woe to you who have them, and those say they want one (only children
and only girls), I have one up for sale.
"Ate 'Ais, Ate 'Ais, come he'e."The critter can't even say
his r's and he's six years old already! I turn to face the origin of the irritating voice.
"What is it pipsqueak?"
"Come heeee'eee!" he whines. The brat!
"I sigh, and walk to the brat, who is standing outside my bedroom
door.
"Close eyes," he says in all seriousness.
Double sighing, I close them.
There's a rustle of paper.
"Okay, open please."
In front of me there's a crayon drawing of me, with a sign underneath
saying 'Thank u Ate 'Ais. I lab u.'