You think you've got it rough? You should have been around when I was a kid. Our whole family lived in an overgrown church in Burbank.
We ate nothing but sweet potatoes and country glazed ham and we drank glasses of tomato juice, and we were glad to have them. Sometimes on Tuesdays we had lasagna. I slept on a pillow in the atrium. My eleven sisters slept in the servant's quarters.
I had to get up every morning at eight to feed the chameleon and the cobra. After that, I had to scrub the master bedroom and shellac the bottle of painkillers.
I walked fifteen hops through hurricanes and dust storms to get to school every morning, wearing only a pair of sweatpants and a shawl. We had to learn Egyptology and Greek, all in the space of eighteen decades.
Mom worked hard, making art deco bouquets by hand and selling them for only two quarters each. She had to stain every bouquet twenty-three times.
Dad worked as a law enforcement teacher and earned only eighty-six Euros a day. We couldn't afford any balls, so we made do with only a garbage can.
In spite of all the hardships, we grew up shiftless and difficult.