This week I’ll be leaving North Carolina and returning home to New York. I spent the summer at my oldest sister’s house. Niki and her family live in charming Greensboro so I try to visit on school breaks. When I get back to New York my other older sister, Chloe, will have a mess of things she’ll want to do with me, I’m sure. So I figured this weeks piece ought to show my appreciation for both of them.

Here are reasons why I secretly dislike my sisters.

1. They Feed Me Too Much.
Whenever I invade their homes they always have something to serve me at some point. If not, then they just tell me their kitchen is open season for my stomach. Maybe they’re implying that I’m incapable of feeding myself? Being a college student is hard—I can’t afford a whole lot of food, but I definitely get by. So they taunt me with their full refrigerators and cupboards of snacks and “real” food. There’s no ramen in there. Only things of substance.

April is my spirit animal

The problem?
If I stay longer than a day, I get used to the full stomach lifestyle. Then I return to my apartment on campus and, like the Grinch, my stomach shrinks three sizes. They’re like the false prophets of nutrition.

2. They Don’t Take Me Seriously.
For some reason they have hearty laughs at everything I say. Odds are they’re going to laugh while reading this article. They chortle, snort, wheeze, and giggle. Sometimes they'll laugh so hard that they have asthma attacks. Upon further investigation I was able to communicate with their co-workers and friends. Surely they must know why this is. They must know why their laughter increases whenever I try to elaborate on my many tales and assertions.

I did this to assume dominance. It didn't work.

The problem?
Turns out they think I’m really funny. Then they go and tell other people this. People who haven’t met me. Now there’s expectations I have to meet. Great.
Do you know how it feels when other people don’t respond to your dry humor? Not even my dad-jokes get people going. Can you imagine being in that situation? No? Of course not.

People eagerly stare at me. Waiting for me to perform and “do something funny” like a cymbal wielding monkey. I am not an animal!

3. They Call Me Ridiculous Names.

Kaka. Let me repeat that for a moment. Ka...ka.
That’s shit, right? In most cultures, ours included, that is another word for “poop.” You may ask, “But oh wise and fourth-wall-breaking author, why do you speak of feces?.” Well, I’ll tell you why.
This is the nomenclature chosen by the two heathens I (supposedly) share blood with. Yes, they call me Kaka. For almost two decades the name has plagued my reputation. Friends, enemies, teachers, and many others have referred to me by this name.

I made this symbol into stickers and sent them out in dozens of Christmas cards. I hoped someone would save me. No one responded.

The problem?
They also call me “Ka”. So why, oh why, must they continue with that fecal title? It lowers my head in shame and makes me cringe. When I hear the word on television or in films I get the feeling that they’re talking about me. My identity is ruined.
Only two things give me comfort. My friends have called me “Frodo” for over twelve years now, which I suppose is slightly better than “Kaka”. The second is that my sister Chloe’s nickname is “Chlo-butt,” or more aptly, “the butt.”
Why does the latter give me comfort? Because I always like to say, “No one wants to be the asshole, but everyone wants to be the shit.”

Ayyyy.

4. My Sense of Self is Ruined.
Growing up the younger of these heathens, Chloe had constantly told me that I’m adopted. For years I believed it until I was old enough to see the lies. The false hope I obtained was shattered.
As we grew even older I slowly began to lose myself. I was known as “Chloe’s little sister” or “Niki’s little sister.” Chloe and I would go to parties together and people would ask why we were friends—I was the dorky loner who read comic books and always wore a black hoodie and Chloe was the preppy cool-girl who knew everyone. Polar opposites. People would not believe that we were related.
Even in my early twenties at my first union job I was called “Niki’s little sister.” I’m just now becoming my own person. A person not named Kaka!

You see my confusion?

The problem?
All of it. It’s all a problem. How am I supposed to prevent myself from having an identity crisis if I’m never called my real name? It’s gotten to where I hate my real name. It’s a stranger. A shadow. A name used by my employers and other formal relationships. For those who don’t know “the real me.” And who is “the real me”? If you read this far then you’re well aware that I cannot answer that. Who am I? I don’t know.

5. They Make Me Look Like an Idiot.
This must be the worst crime of them all. My reputation is everything and yet they have the public take me for a fool. They gleefully snicker and whisper in my ear about these “inside jokes.” Relentless talks of hot dog dances, wiener loving, doozings, Carl the monkey, the illustrious Peter Goldburgers, “squirrel you’re worth it,” and more.

I have no words

The problem?
I have no idea what the hell they’re talking about. They look in my direction and idiotically giggle and expect me to understand their foreign slang. It’s been years and I still do not understand their cryptic terminology. I’ve tried to giggle back in similar tones and such in the hopes that this will appease them, yet it seems to only make it worse. Commoners of the public will often witness these things and take me to be one of them. Being confused for the likes of them is an insult to my lineage. But I must trudge on.

6. They Inflict Pain in Various Ways.
One would think this would be the worst. Nay, I take pride in my stoic self for tolerating their advances. But what type of pain do I speak of? Kidnappings. Biting. Force feeding.

I’ll be alone in my private quarters when the younger of the two calls me to ask if I’m dressed. Typically I am not—I’ll be sitting at my computer in short shorts and a baggy t-shirt, hair all a mess, and overall unfit to leave the property. Always, without fail, she will exclaim that she’s one minute away and that she’s picking me up to accompany her during her errands. Her oldest spawn, Jayden, will excitedly giggle and actually admit to the kidnapping. Terrible.
The biting? Yes, comrades, it’s exactly like it sounds. I’ll be working diligently at my computer, making food in the kitchen, or simply standing around when they’ll approach me from behind and bite my shoulder with a growl and slight head shake. Like a pup trying to rip a toy. They’ve honed their stealth skills and I have trained my sense of environmental observation. They almost make mediocre foes in this regard, but alas I can typically deflect their fangs.
Then there’s the feeding. This may be tied in with my first grievance. It’s common for me to meet with these heathens and join our elders for dining in public. Frequently they’ll sit either next to or across from my person. At least once during our meal they’ll interrupt my speech to shove their food into my mouth. Yes, brothers and sisters, the littlest heathen, Chloe, will take a fork-full of food from her own plate, wait until I’m occupied and speaking, then forcefully shove her fork into my mouth at an opportune time. This is insulting—she’s inferring that I’m too weak to nurture myself. It’s an attack on my strength.

Sometimes they pick on others. I often join in the fray.

The problem?
None, really. All this proves is that I’m a badass for putting up with their crap.

Simply awful.

In closing,

I’ve been fighting these creatures for almost a quarter of a century. I don’t know what they want or why they haven’t removed me from their clan. Often I wonder why I simply haven’t removed myself from their clutches. I fear that I may have grown accustomed to their strange and archaic ways. I had hoped that adulthood would make me stronger so that I can fight back. Unfortunately, this is not the case and the opposite has occurred. Maturity has only brought them to further believe that we are all alike.

I fear for my future. Send help.