Lending to my frustration of wanting to be a left alone naughty bad girl, my eldest sister Terry was our large high school Homecoming Queen. Like a healthy horse, when Terry smiles she glimmers her pink upper gums. Terry will continue to agree with an individual, nodding her head, with that unique smile the devil couldn’t refuse, and she listens. Terry is likely thinking, “Let me mesmerize you and after I get a handle on whatever it is; I will take control.”
Most emails and calls I get from Terry begin with, “What’s wrong with you?” I’m in my mid 40’s and for 40 mid years, nothing’s changed. The exception being the time I got involved a motorcycle style injury and was forced to learn body movement on my left and then right side combined, plus, my left brain stem was injured. Okay, yes, then, I gave them something to worry about and yes, there was something really wrong with me. But it’s been over twenty years and I’ve only been on a motorcycle, like, three times since.
Suspicion takes over if Terry contacts me and asks something innocuous. Doesn’t she know that I know her motive is to trip me, to accuse me of a lie, that may have happened, or not, fourteen weeks ago? The only lies I tell are to get her off my back.
“Sheila,” Terry says, “have you had sufficient vitamins in your food today?”
“Uh. Yeah.” I answer.
Meanwhile, I am still alive, with a job, and my sister Terry always makes me feel guilty enough that I should turn myself in to the police, daily.
“What have we got here?” The police officer looks up from behind his desk. “Can I help you?”
“See,” I pause, uncertain on how to proceed, “Okay,” I sigh, “My sister Terry thinks there’s something terribly wrong with me. Although! I haven’t touched alcohol, yuck, in years. But.” I pause and fear the police officer’s disappointment, “I do smoke weed sometimes.”
The police officer stands, “Lady, would you like a seat, some water?”
Being a Cull automatically turns any path that I take, into devious.