You think you've got it rough? You should have been around when I was a kid. Our whole family lived in a jagged homeless shelter in St. Paul.
We ate nothing but potatoes and gravy and lamb curry and we drank Tom Collins, and we were glad to have them. Sometimes on Tuesdays we had cherries jubilee. I slept on a hatstand in the master bedroom. My five sisters slept in the servant's quarters.
I had to get up every morning at ten to feed the mosquito and the tropical fish. After that, I had to scrub the patio and re-evaluate the coupon.
I walked thirty-four blocks through hurricanes and snowstorms to get to school every morning, wearing only a skeleton costume and a pair of bloomers. We had to learn anatomy and Samoan, all in the space of seven eternities.
Mom worked hard, making charming bagpipes by hand and selling them for only twelve shillings each. She had to feel every bagpipe eleven times.
Dad worked as a beekeeper and earned only fifty-six dimes a day. We couldn't afford any cans of sardines, so we made do with only a can of beer.
In spite of all the hardships, we grew up brilliant and perky.