I’d like to think that my love for my sister is unconditional and everlasting, but it’s really entirely contingent on her bringing me food.
She works at Chili’s and has been under friendly helpful “if you don’t want there to be any trouble” guidelines to bring me ribs and fries (and now these glorious little heart-attack nuggets called “chicken crispers” she introduced me to that are just magic for the soul).
It would be nice if I was like “oh, dearest blood of mine, I hope you had a wonderful da– oh? a meal? for me? that is” but the truth of the situation is slightly less idealistic.
In reality I’m much more like “wtf is with this bitch? why does she even exist? what a useless waste of spa— you brought me food!? OMG U YOU’RE MY FAVORITE RELATIVE IN THE ENTIRE FAMILY TREE, BOTH SIDES, LIVING OR DEAD!”
I can’t help it. It’s just me. Well. I can help it. but I have no desire to.
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