My Brother

I think he’s a loser, but I’m not the only one.

It’s really the consensus.

My brother has been working on a beard. And needs a haircut too. He’s started to look like a hipster sans glasses and Starbucks. And he’s actually poor. All he needs to add are some plaid shirts. Maybe he can do something with his life and take up photography.

My brother is two years older and has clearly been dropped on his head, out the window and been hit by the Ugly Stick a few too many times. I’m not drop dead gorgeous, but at least at this point, I don’t look like I live in the woods. If all else fails me, at least I have my intelligence. Some times that seems doubtful, but I can rattle off random facts like nobody’s business. I’m like the Portal 2 Fact Core. And a little like the Adventure Core “Rick.” I digress.

My brother loves soccer. He thinks he fabulous and a gift to the soccer community. I think he has delusions of grandeur and has never ever played with, near or around the Sounders, but that’s me. I know my brother’s reliance on lying.

“How can you tell that someone’s a compulsive liar? I mean, assuming their pants aren’t on fire.” -Shawn Spencer, Psych, Truer Lies. In my world, his name is Jeff and he’s a few inches taller than me and people tell me we’re related, but I don’t believe them.

He’s over now. He made me mad, so I yelled at him as I went back to my room. I’d rather be here with the internet.

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