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So kids say things. A lot of things, some of which are amusing. Maybe you have your own, maybe you’re a parent and similarly torture your children, but me and my brother cannot escape certain things that we. said. once.

Now my brother is older than me – 7 and a half years older – and my half brother. Our father is Italian-American. My mom is that vague American mix of a bit German and a lot of who really cares. My brother is blond. He was about 5 when my parents got married and felt the need to declare loudly and often, “She’s NOT my mother.”

At some point they went to a restaurant, and, as they were ordering, a little voice piped up, “Excuse me, excuuuuuuuuuuse me. Do you have a soup and salad bar?”

Also half the time he’s referred to as “Guckin” not Justin.

I was a little shit of a sister. When we moved to North Carolina from Kentucky, it was the summer before my brother started the 8th grade and I started kindergarten. Justin stayed in Kentucky to finish middle school and moved to North Carolina for high school. This was the first time we’d ever lived together for more than a week at a time. My parents decided to take advantage of the fact that there was a 15-year-old living at home and left him with me if they needed to go to a business dinner or something. I, being a little shit, used to write down everything that he did wrong and wait up for my parents.

“I’ve got it all right down here on paper!”

We can never live these things down.
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