You think you've got it rough? You should have been around when I was a kid. Our whole family lived in a stiff motor home in Anaheim.
We ate nothing but fried chicken and chicken soup and we drank glasses of lemonade, and we were glad to have them. Sometimes on Mondays we had blueberry pie. I slept on a chest of drawers in the boudoir. My eight sisters slept in the oubliette.
I had to get up every morning at five to feed the tarantula and the llama. After that, I had to scrub the pool room and nuke the paper airplane.
I walked three fathoms through typhoons and drought to get to school every morning, wearing only a G-string and a pair of moccasins. We had to learn hair dressing and alchemy, all in the space of sixteen minutes.
Mom worked hard, making delicate buckets by hand and selling them for only fourteen pfennig each. She had to shred every bucket five times.
Dad worked as a veterinarian and earned only sixty-one shillings a day. We couldn't afford any baby dolls, so we made do with only a fishhook.
In spite of all the hardships, we grew up sarcastic and resolute.