Frizzun Chickun Pls

            Siblings often see more of us in than we do ourselves. My sister sees me with absolute clarity. Sydney knows my every vice, habits, and secret. If there is any person I can look to to find out who I will become, it's her. And I guess it goes both ways for us. There is a certain freedom in being utterly weird when you have someone else to share it with. Few people know how awesome my sister's weird side is. It brings more laughter and light to my life than any other person or any other funny thing in the world. That aside, she's prone to strange sayings and epiphanies. I finally just started writing them down whenever it happened. 

My childhood was mostly comprised of tormenting this small, loud beast with whom I shared a bedroom.  We had a three-year gap between us, which was, to my six-year-old, apple-juice-addled mind, the most exquisitely inconvenient age gap a set of siblings could share. For the next six years or so, I felt she hindered my potential genius. I felt like I'd been cheated. I was destined to be a modern-day shaman, but all I had for an apprentice was this super chill toddler that licked me on road trips until I was old enough to sit in the front seat.

        

            Being the philistine that she was, she had a hostile reaction to live music from a young age. One of my earliest memories of my sister is from when I was singing the Kenny Loggins song from Tigger Movie. 

            Ah, yes. I should probably explain. Some time ago we began to call each other Gooby. It has been our mutual nickname ever since.

            The majesty of siblinghood knows no bounds. Sydney and I share our deepest desires with each other. For example, she adores Tyson chicken nuggets. It is only through years of trust and friendship that I have realized that it's not just a friendly kind of love. It's a once-in-a-lifetime love, the desperate kind worthy of poetry and many tears. The way she asks me to buy them for her when we're buying groceries is heart-rending.

            As I live with her, I am privy to her angsty musings. The teenage mind is a strange beast. From her theory for the reasoning behind celebrity crushes to the true nature of the moustache, I get to hear it all. For what these moments lack in relevance and sense, they make up for in comedic timing and quaintness, and listening to her rambles has an almost enlightening feel to it.

            Mm. These are the days of our lives, man. I'm so glad I have the relationship I have with Sydney while we're this age. The stories of the times we've had make excellent blackmail.     

words and art copyright 2014 by Sabrina Smith

My Own Brand Of Legendary

     I reached a new level of stupidity a few weeks back. Several Fridays ago, I was making lunch for my dad, happy and free. My emotions and mental energy were wrapped around a 2002 miniseries on the life of Napoleon. At one point I came across an unusually stubborn package of liverwurst. Now, I am not a deft person, particularly with knives. As I pulled my kitchen knife up to slice the plastic, I failed to notice that the knife edge was facing up, and I was pulling that edge towards my face. Nor did I realize that I was using the sharpest knife in my house. So, like any normal person, I was shocked when the knife suddenly popped up through the plastic and smacked into my own dumb face. 

    MY OWN FACE TRIED TO COMMIT HARA-KIRI.

    I stood there for a moment in shock, eyes closed, before reaching up to feel my face. My hand came down covered with blood, and I froze. From the outside, I seemed merely stunned, but for a brief moment there I wondered if I'd stabbed myself in the eye, or perhaps chopped the upper half of my face off. 

   I steeled myself and felt around again. My eyeball was still there, but I could make out a deep cut above my eyebrow. Still holding the knife, I ran to the bathroom. As I prodded the gash in my forehead, I wondered what sort of opportunity this might hold. What amazing stories might I weave around this new scar? What excuses might I make, what yarns might I spin to make this story seem less stupid?

     I couldn't think of any. 
     As my family and friends found out what the lame half-inch-long cut above my eyebrow was from, I had nothing to tell them but the truth. They weren't surprised at any of it, except for the apparent small miracle that I hadn't actually hit my eye. 

     It was then that I realized that, through years of experience, I have built up a repertoire of klutziness. So much so that I can't faze anyone who knows me well, unless it involves an amputation or a wake. And somehow that kind of inspired me. I may not be a hardcore falcon-wielding lone ranger with an eyepatch, a source of lores and legends, but I guess I have my own legacy. I'm as graceful as an undead manatee. With all the force of a great typhoon. So I have that going for me: my own brand of legendary. 

Dream big, guys.

words and art copyright 2013 by Sabrina Smith