Inside the Sparkle Studio

I had forgotten all about James Lipton and his adorable lip-less self (does anyone else find it ironic that a man with “lip” in his name lacks them?) until I turned on the boob tube today and saw him hammering his questions home to a yucky and completely unattractive George Clooney. (Yes, you all have found perhaps the only woman in the world who would not sleep with George just to say she slept with George.)

I reminisced about the times I daydreamed about sitting across from James Lipton’s spectacled self just to have him pick my brain and find out exactly how and why I became my fabulously famous self. (Clearly, this daydream still exists.) And so I decided to put all your curiosities to rest and answer the famed Inside the Actor’s Studio questionnaire. (Mainly because by the time I’m sitting across from dear sweet James, he will probably be long dead, and I shall have forgotten what my original answers were due to my old age, and shall have to fashion new and exciting answers.)

 1. What is your favorite word?

Scintillate- I learned this word in my 6th grade vocabulary class-perhaps the only thing I retained from my school days other than the first verse of Oh captain, my Captain. Scintillate- the definition is “to glisten or sparkle”. Don’t tell me you’re surprised.

2. What is your least favorite word?

Moist. Ugh. Just typing it makes me gag just a little. Also, “slice”- it gives me shivers when people say it. Sadly, once people find that out, they run after me screeching at the top of their lungs “Slice! Slice! Slice! Slice!”

3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

If I am to answer with something that turns me on in all three ways, I will say undoubtedly- books. Every book I read turns on my creativity, whether it is because it gives me ideas, or because I think to myself that I may be able to do better than the author. Emotionally, because a well-written book can make you sob uncontrollably, laugh hysterically, or make you want to fuck the living daylights out of someone. A badly written book will piss you off bad enough that you may want to strangle the author, or the publisher who would allow such trash to be published. Spiritually, because a book may bring you closer to God, or further away that you ever imagined you could be.

Attention also turns me on. It makes me happy, and sparks my creativity enough to make me try to be whoever it is the person giving me attention is looking for.

4. What turns you off?

Laziness. And unnecessary cruelty.

5. What is your favorite curse word?

Fuck. Because it can be so mean or so nice. Fuck you or fuck me. People can make their own decision about which one I will say to them.

6. What sound or noise do you love?

Someone asking me for a hug.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?

Belching. And people chewing- open-mouthed or closed.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Almost anything, but superhero sounds the best.

9. What profession would you not like to do?

Pooper pumper. Whether it be one of those guys who sucks the shit outta the sewer, or the doctor who administers the colonoscopy tube.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the      Pearly Gates?

“Hey, everybody, we don’t have to worry anymore; Sparkle’s finally here!”

Who Are You?

“Who are you?”

That was the first question in

Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself.

Ironic, isn’t it,

that a book that’s supposed to

help you find yourself expects you to tell it

who you are?

I could write my name in the blank line,

but I’m sure that’s not what Mcleod meant-

since there are seven more blank lines.

I look up at the ceiling,

pondering.

Who am I?

I wonder aloud.

Just then,

I notice the sparkles on the ceiling I’m looking at.

I’ve lived here for three years and never realized

I’ve been living under an artificial Home Depot sky.

I come back to the task at hand.

I put pen to paper-

the handwriting I hate that is mine comes out in a

beautiful fuschia gel shade.

I am a person who talks to herself,

gets distracted by sparkly things,

and is, at times, completely un-observant.

I nod, satisfied.

I think Mcleod would approve.

I continue.

I am terrible at making decisions.

I pause.

But once I make one, I do not change my mind.

Not entirely true,

since I was once married,

and am no longer.

What Mcleod doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

That reminds me.

I am someone who cheats.

No.

I am someone who cheats. I have cheated in past lives, but not in this one.

Much better.

Now on to the nitty gritty.

The thoughts come faster than I can write

and I forget a few.

I am a mother, but have no children.

I long for a father, but refuse to forgive the one I have.

I love alone time, but am terrified to be abandoned.
I work hard, but am irrevocably lazy.

I believe in God, but I think He can be an asshole sometimes.

I want to be a writer, but find every excuse not to write.

I am amazingly stubborn, yet I compromise more than anyone else I know.

I am the saddest girl there ever was,

yet everyone that knows me say,

“How happy she is!”

That’s the one that always gets me.

Unforgettable, cunt, beautiful, odd-looking, sexy, dorky, talented, loser, amazing,

These are all words others have used to describe me;

I cannot help but wonder who it is they are talking about.

When I look in the mirror,

I am just me.

I read everything I’ve just written.

Contradictions, every single one.

I toss Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself on the floor, irritated.

How are you supposed to know who you are when

everything about you is a paradox?

I look back up at my imitation stars.

I think a moment,

about all that I have done,

the people I have known,

the lives I have lived;

then resolutely, I pick up Mcleod’s self help book.

I scribble a little on the corner of a page

to make sure my fuschia pen still works

before I write one more thing.

I am Love.

 

 

 

 

 

“Niblets in the Sun”

On occasion, my  Rockstar and I spend a goodly amount of minutes wandering through the virtual musical world of Rhapsody. Last night was one of those nights. (We also just so happened to be accompanied by Marilyn Monroe and her strawberry-flavored vodka.)

After listening to the growling of a less-than-talented death metal band, I told my Rockstar that we needed to listen to something a little more happy. He pooh-poohed George Strait’s new album (which was fine), and somehow we started listening to Madonna. My Rockstar requested Like a Virgin, me thinks because I do so make him feel as though he is touched for the very first time. This started a whole new wave of music listening- that of 80’s pop. Welcome to the land of the Eurythmics, Cyndi Lauper, Phil Collins, and Billy Joel.

To both my Rockstar and I, these musicians fall into the category of Talented-Because-of-Style, or in Phil Collins’ case, his name just happened to come up. I adore Billy Joel for his piano abilities; I have a hard time deciding if I actually like his songs. However, we chose to listen to Only the Good Die Young, and I found myself jigging along. (Yes, I jig, because I wish I was Irish.)

There was a point in the song where I sang along to my favorite lyrics: “That stained-glass window you’re hiding behind Niblets in the sun”, when my Rockstar gave me the strangest look. I sheepishly admitted that I never could understand what Billy said in that line, and Niblets seemed like an interesting enough choice to include. Now, I realize there are no Niblets in the sun, so it would be nearly impossible to hide behind them, (that is, if One could even figure out what a Niblet was in the first place) but who am I to judge Billy’s musical genius? I DID decide I had remained clueless long enough, and so I looked up the actual lyrics, which make a little more sense. (They are “the stained-glass window you’re hiding behind never lets in the sun”, in case you no longer wish to sing about Niblets either.)

We went on to listen to a plethora of other sub-standard music, when my Rockstar got caught up in John cougar Mellencamp’s web, and I discovered something. My Rockstar judges me when I get excited to hear the Backstreet Boys or the Spice Girls- John Cougar is his Spice Girls. I watched in abject horror as he plucked away on his guitar and sang to every Mellencamp song ever written. How I did wish then that I was behind some Niblets in the sun…

Rubbed

Devon took his hat off and slapped it against his dirtied knee to get all the dust off of it, and then ran his forearm across his sweaty head. He didn’t even think about the dust and dirt that covered his arm, so he had no way of knowing he now sported a damp cruddy smear over his forehead. He put his Minnesota Wild cap back on, this time backwards, so he had a little more light. He swung the hammer one more time, and watched the remainder of the wall he was demolishing crumble.

As he waited for the dust to clear, he looked around at his handiwork. His parents had thought he was crazy, buying a century-old abandoned house, and he realized after the first day of remodeling that they were probably right. He figured the huge undertaking would get his mind off of her, but then he realized everything about this place only reminded him of her even more. He snorted at himself in disgust, and looked down at his feet, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears that threatened to appear. He saw something glint in the light of his yellow construction lamp, and he rubbed his eyes to clear his vision.

He’d already ripped down several walls in the house, and found it amusing all the things the former owners had stuffed in the walls. He’d kept a few fifty-plus-year-old newspapers, but thrown away the decrepit accordion. He bent down to pick up the thing that had caught his eye, and realized as he pulled it out of the rubble that it was an aged beer bottle. Given his affinity for beer, he thought maybe this would be a cool little trinket to clean up and display since it was still intact. He peered intently at the label, trying to read it, but it was too grimy, so he rubbed his thumb over the printing to read it better.

Suddenly, the bottle got extremely hot, and he dropped it, holding his burning hand as the offending bottle rolled across the dusty floor.

“What the fuck?!” He cursed in confusion, inspecting his palm for burn welts. He jumped out of his skin when the beer bottle on the floor burst into flames. The blaze was blindingly bright, then went out almost immediately. Devon blinked, giving his eyes a second to adjust to the alterations in light.

“Seriously, what the hell?” He wondered to himself.

“Not quite. Just a little less than an angel.” Devon was startled when he heard the silky voice- even more so when he realized there was a woman standing in front of him. He took in the waist-length jet hair and dark almond eyes and knew she wasn’t from around here. He was shocked dumb at the suddenness of her presence in general, and at her incredible beauty.

“Well, I know you’re not a mute, so you might as well tell me your name if you can’t think of anything else to say.” She had a noticeable accent, Devon thought from somewhere in the Middle East.

“Ahh, how’d you get in here? I fixed the locks right away when I bought the place.” He was surprised he had found his voice so quickly, especially when he realized the stranger was wearing some sort of gown that was completely transparent.

The woman waved her hand in a dismissive manner. “I’ll not get into the specifics. Let’s just get on with it. Might I get the name of my new master?” She stood looking at him with dark eyes, expectantly.

“Master? What are you talking about?” Devon was completely lost.

The siren in front of him sighed.

Another bright one. Phenomenal. She rolled her eyes as the thought ran through her mind.

She spoke slowly, as one would to an misunderstanding child. ” People generally recognize me as djinn- genie, if you wish. Because your wish is my command.” Devon noticed the last half of her little speech was issued resignedly.

Devon snorted incredulously. “A genie. So you came out of a beer bottle? Are you high?” He actually wondered at this point if perhaps he was the one that was high.

“It’s a long story. That wasn’t my original flagon. I digress.” She shook her head. “The point is, I am yours to command. Everything you know of us is true, if you know anything at all.” She believed he was Neanderthal enough to miss the jab to his intelligence.

“Genies grant three wishes. That’s all I know.” Devon did indeed believe now that he was hallucinating, because he would never converse with someone posing as a mythical being otherwise.

“So what you know is incorrect. Astonishing.” Her sarcasm was not lost on Devon.

Versatility

Versatile:

adjective

def:

1. capable of or adapted for turning easily from one to another of various tasks, fields of endeavor, etc.: a versatile writer.

2. having or capable of many uses: a versatile tool.

3. attached at or near the middle so as to swing freely, as an anther.

4. turning either forward or backward: a versatile toe.

5. variable or changeable, as in feeling, purpose, or policy: versatile moods.

If you haven’t figured out by now, the lovely Dust and Soul has nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award. As I adore being recognized (and talking about myself), I have cause to wanna give her a big ol’ Sparklebumps Booby Squish.

Since I have been the recipient of this award on several occasions, I decided to look up the definition. If you look above, these definitions perfectly describe me-

1.I most certainly turn easily from one to another of various tasks, fields of endeavor, etc. Which may explain why I have never finished one thing in my entire life, including my many books I’ve begun to write.

2.I AM capable of many uses, but I am most adept at uses of the sexual nature…

3.I swing freely on the park swing on a weekly basis,  but I not quite certain that’s what that definition meant.

4.Turning either forward or backward…. hmmm. Cowgirl or Reverse Cowgirl, anyone? I suppose missionary or doggy-style work too.

5.Variable is my middle name. Emotional is perhaps the synonym used more often for me.

According to the rules, I am supposed to mention the nominator of me- I luvs ya, Dust and Soul!

Then I am to list 7 things about myself…

1. I seem to think that the windows in my vehicle are magical enough to block outside drivers’ sight of me. In other words, if you confront me about jamming out to Metallica while alternately texting and applying Siren Red lipstick, I will deny, deny, deny.

2. I believe the world DOES revolve around me, at least some of the time. You just have to be standing next to me to notice it.

3. I secretly repudiate women with longer legs than I. While my little dwarf-sized gams are agreeably curvy, I think they will never be described as “sexy”.

4. I walk around naked in my apartment when no one is home. Unfortunately, I forget the neighbors are probably home and looking out their windows.

5. I believe I could comfortably live as Amish- provided I get a free pass to have sex.

6. I got out of dissecting a baby pig in 9th grade Biology by telling my science teacher it was against my beliefs to be part in the murder and dismemberment of the innocent.

7. Despite having worked overtime for most of my working life, I am incredibly lazy.

 #7 is the reason I’m going to fudge the last rule.

I’m supposed to nominate 15 fellow bloggers who are versatile and amazing, but as you can see from #7, I’m a lazy bitch. So, I urge you to click on Dust and Soul’s links, because I checked them out to see what kind of company I was included in, and I must say that I am completely humbled, for they are all better writers than I. However, I probably have bigger boobs. 🙂

An Appeal to Lex and Terry

Lex and Terry are the creators of a totally awesome morning show that’s on the radio in Texas. They also happen to be aired anywhere that’s anywhere, which includes St. Cloud, where I live. I’ve decided it’s about time they knew about me.

Dear uber-sexy bald man Lex and slightly less-sexy-but-still-awesome-in-a-creepy-way Terry,

You are the Gods of Morning Radio, and should be told so every day. I love listening to you whenever I happen not to be a lazy ass and actually get outta bed before 9 am.

Lex, your voice is so silkily smooth and deep that I am forced to turn down  my radio when you speak, because it causes the bass speakers in my amazing yellow truck to rumble, and I do not want to be mistaken for one of those infantile morons who blows their entire paycheck on subs for their vehicles. I adore your perfectly-round head, and anytime I think about it, I want to rub my hands (and perhaps some other choice body parts) all over it. You are like a shorter, slightly-less-buff Christopher Meloni. Morning radio would be forever jaded if you happened to wreck your vocal chords. (Or dent your impeccable head.)

Terry, I must admit that your radio voice terrorizes me on a daily basis- but it’s not for me to judge those who chose to put you on the radio. Clearly, you make it work, which shows us all how clearly awesome you are in other aspects; aspects I have yet to determine. I’ve come to notice that when you guys play Name that Tune off of your ipods, you happen to have just horrendous taste in music, and the fact that you would consider me obese based off of my weight makes me chagrined to meet you- but I think when you realize that 25 of that poundage is in my bra, you will quickly reconsider.

I want to applaud you boys for employing such a seductive creature as Dee. He and his big black ass are an amazing asset to your show, and when he makes me laugh during your Round Table Raps, I just wanna squishhimtodeathwithmyboobiesandsmoochhislittlehead! He won my heart when he did a spot on rendition of a Jet song awhile back, complete with verbal instrumentals.

The point of this letter is to  let you  guys know that I and my DDD’s would be a lovely addition to your show. I seem to remember you used to have Drunk Girl Friday. Let me assure you, I AM your Drunk Girl Friday. Technically, when I am home, I drink on Tuesdays, but if you flew me down every Friday, I most certainly be willing to adjust my libation schedule. I’ve been told that I’m quite entertaining when I drink, (although “entertaining” is perhaps not the word my Rockstar would use) and I believe your show needs a big dose of womanliness. (I was going to put femininity, but it doesn’t look right when I spell it.)

Which brings me to another matter.

You may have noticed I failed to mention the female portion of your little team.

I must admit that I question your judgement(s ?) daily for hiring Sarah as your radio gal. Her lack of personality is very apparent  on the radio, or perhaps she HAS personality that just isn’t apparent on the radio. Every time she mentions her lizards or carried on about her Love Boat boyfriend in the past, I just wanna climb through my truck radio and squeeze her little neck til her head pops off! I’ve been told that the women from Texas are the hottest in the world- I must be frank- Sarah is not one of them. Although she does have a very fun tattoo. I’m sure if I was to meet her, we would get along swimmingly. (Or tear each other’s clothes off, which I’m sure you wouldn’t disapprove of.)

Anyhoo, I’ve rambled on enough. If you guys feel like adding a few cup sizes and laughs to your show, let me know! I love ya forever!

Much Booby-Squishes and Ass-Slaps,

Sparklebumps

Unavailable

Ooh, Victoria’s Secret,

How I do loath the way you discriminate!

Yes, it’s true that I have drunk (drank, drinken?) a goodly amount of Three Olives Marilyn Monroe Strawberry Vodka, but do you so needlessly need to deny my succulent boobage support?!

I do not understand the source of your immeasurable hatred, oh Goddess Shop of Lingerie. I seem to remember a time when you so fervently provided me with a seemingly endless amount of credit. Is it because the credit you provided me on my sparkly credit card did INDEED end, and that I thereafter ceased to repay it? For that I am truly regretful, and feel you should no longer hold a grudge.

It’s true that my excessive breasteses make people jealous on occasion, but I see not the reason your website continues to deny me access to the adorable and ultra-sexy leopard-print multi-way bras by repeatedly telling me said cutesy boulder holders are unavailable in sizes that are 38 and DDD, which happen to be my size. Do you not see profit in charging such endowed women as I $62 per bra? I must urge you to reconsider.

I implore you, most decadent of stores, my body can no longer fruitfully function in less -than- designer booby buckets. My skin has made a clear statement that it shall forever hold an aversion to inferior bras; each night I return home from long hard days as a Pizza Slut only to find the alabaster skin beneath my boobies red with irritation at my cheap and unsupportive Walmart bras. I have more than once considered going sans bra at work, which, while that would not be a disappointment to my many fellow male employees, I would not at all feel comfortable pointing my teetage in their general direction.

And so, dearest Victoria, please cover my Secrets and desist from telling me my size is disconcertedly and permanently “Unavailable”.

Love Always,

Sparklebumps

I Wanna, I Wanna, I Wanna…

Yes, that was a Spice Girls reference. I am not ashamed to admit my sometimes horrid and unmusical taste in music. So there.

I had a conversation with a co-worker the other night, and he seems to think I let my own wants and likes go by the wayside more often than I should. His theory is based on what he has perceived of my life, and loosely based on things I’ve mentioned  in passing conversation.

I got to thinking about his statement, and about relationships. When a person is in a relationship with another person, is there not always a few likes and wants that are at times pushed aside by the other person’s likes and wants? Relationships are all about compromise, or so I’ve been told. I just happen to be more compromising than some people. And to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever met any couple that has absolutely every like or desire in common. They may say it, but that doesn’t make it true.

Mayhap it’s because I’m a Libra, or bi-polar, or just all-out insane, but I am completely inept at making decisions. Although, once I have made them, I am much too stubborn to go back and change my mind. At least on the important things. Perhaps that is why I somewhat depend on the person I’m in a relationship with to make the big decisions.

Of course there are things I like. When asked, I would say I like books, and hugs. Throw in a little (or a lot) of sex, music, and some quiet time, and my life is mostly complete. I think it’s safe to say that these are all things that in no way interfere with or override my Rockstar’s likes or wants. In fact, sex can only increase the quality of his life, as can books. (If he actually reads them.) The only thing I may like that he isn’t necessarily prepared to give is excessive amounts of attention. (But then again, is anyone in the world ready to give me as much as I want? I think not.)

I tried to explain my complications to my coworker. I am convinced that if I were single, or in any way unattached, I would be dead within a year or two. I think to much when I am alone, (my Rockstar agrees with me completely on that), and honestly I don’t like myself enough to actually care about what happens to me, so alcoholism, addiction, and aids would probably all kill me eventually. Perhaps this is why I desire a child, or ten- if I had them, I’d have someone that needs me. (Right now, I take care of my Rockstar and his Daughter, but I am unconvinced he actually NEEDS me- which is as it should be, since he is 42.)

Enough of this rambling. To quote Juno, all I really want is someone who even through my worst “still thinks the sun shines out my ass.” All the other shit is just filler.

Apply Now!

And I have.

I find it a little disconcerting when I’ve taken to applying  for jobs on my days off as a Pizza Slut. Can job apply-ery be considered a hobby? I believe so, especially when I can recite from memory the exact start and end dates of my last FOUR jobs. (My Rockstar was slightly impressed at that feat.)

It’s not that I despise my current job- ok, that’s a lie. So I despise my current job, but not for the reasons one may perhaps think. It’s true that the lack of tipping going on is at an all time high, and it’s also true that despite the fact that I told my boss last week that I’m no longer in charge, I still seem to be the only one who knows what the fuck is going on there. But if you were to ask me why it is I so desperately seek new employment, I would tell you it is because I wish to have a job that I shower at BEFORE I go to work, not after.

I remember now the reason I so had come to hate my old restaurant job. It is because the stench of grease and sustenance never fully washes away in the cleansing waters of the bath. I loofah (is that a verb?) like crazy, and yet I find myself sniffing my pits wondering if I stink as bad as I think I do.

This was never a problem at my bookstore. Sure, old books have a distinct scent to them, but not one that gone unwashed will make you smell like an athlete’s jock strap.

And so, I decided today during my search for the perfect job that isn’t writing, I shall not lower my standards to apply at any job that causes me to break a sweat on a daily basis. (It’s disturbing how completely lazy that sounds to me.) Luckily, Barnes and Nobles is once again hiring, so that was my first application of the day. Too, I found that ULTA was hiring, and since the girls that work there are always beautiful in looks and smell, I said to myself that I must get that job! After pooh-poohing the idea of becoming a breast imager (while the concept sounds extremely interesting, I am certain there must be some sort of schooling needed there), I decided that I’ve had enough for the day.

Now I sit with fingers crossed, hoping no interviewers ask me the reason for my termination from the bookstore…

The Woman In His Life

I had a good talk with my beloved brother yesterday.

I’ve mentioned him on occasion, but because of my early onset of Alheimer’s that I seem to be suffering from this week, I do not recall exactly what I have written about him.

My brother is the product of my flaky mother and her first asshole husband. (Which technically makes my brother only my half-brother, but we shall not split hairs- mainly because the ones on my head are already split.) Let us just say that because of the tender age my mother was when she gave birth to my sibling, he did not receive the care he perhaps may have gotten if she had been 30 and fully matured. He was 12 when I was born, and excited to have a beautiful baby sister who was me.

I was far too young to remember much about the time he lived with us before my dad kicked him out for smoking pot, but I remember fondly the brotherly love he bestowed upon me- namely, flicking the end of my nose, (that hurt like a bitch!) and swatting my ass with a flyswatter after I repeatedly spit on his leather jacket, which I did only to show off to his friends. I did not get know truly know him until I was 18 and out of the house, because my parents treated him as a pariah, and were afraid he would be a bad influence on me. (As if I wasn’t a bad enough influence on myself.)

My Brother had a nervous breakdown at his last job, around the time I got to know him, and was diagnosed with depression and some other mental issues I fail to recall at this time. I remember the first time I went to visit him after not knowing him for most of my life, and found that he was not a normal person- mainly because he was much kinder, and more sensitive and loving than the normal people who go around only caring about themselves every day. We fast became friends, despite being complete opposites- he was raised with no structure while I was raise in an invisible churchy prison; he has no job while I have for the most part worked overtime my entire working life; I have a faith I believe firmly in, while he hasn’t an idea what to believe.

Because we did not exactly grow up as brother and sister conventionally do, we have many conversations that I’m not sure normal siblings have. We talk of love, and sex, and dreams. He told me of the one woman he truly loved, a 350 lb. black woman who he had worked with and gone to movies with who had been 15 years his senior. I told him of my deep desire to have children, and of how we should start a band, because he plays drums and I piano, and we both adore music.

When I was with my ex-husband, he could not understand why I visited my brother so often. “He doesn’t have a job” and “He lives off of disability” were his repeated statements. I tried to explain to him that a job (or lack thereof) does not make a person who they are, unless they intend it to be that way. While I do not necessarily carry a deep devotion to family, I see my brother as my brother, whether he has a job or smokes alotta weed or is depressed more than the average person.

About 9 months ago, my brother told me he met a girl, and I was ecstatic for him. It did not take me long, however, to realize from what he told me that this bitch was a crazy useless ‘ho, who perhaps unintentionally was preying on my brother’s sensitivity. I could not hide my dislike for her when he introduced her to me- after I left she was quick to ask my brother if I hated her.

I’ve not had a lot of time to go visit my brother in the last months, but we’ve talked on the phone enough for me to know he’s had a tough time letting go of this insane chic, but when I talked to him yesterday, he calmly told me he has come to a conclusion: He is convinced that I am the woman in his life.

His statement is not to be thought of in disgusting incestual terms, for he means it not in that way at all. All he meant is that I am the one woman who has always been there for  him, and never let him down, and never expected anything from him except for him to be himself. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that he has been that to me as well. He always is happy to see me, and expects naught from me except my sisterly love.

Incidentally, I’ve been together with my Rockstar for 3 years, and he has yet to meet my brother, “the man in my life.” Don’t ask me why, because I know not the reason.