You think you've got it rough? You should have been around when I was a kid. Our whole family lived in a flaky convent in Cincinnati.
We ate nothing but oyster on the half-shell and moo goo gai pan and we drank Manhattans, and we were glad to have them. Sometimes on alternate blue moons we had beef bouillon. I slept on a coffee table in the billiard room. My four sisters slept in the oubliette.
I had to get up every morning at eight to feed the brine shrimp and the bullfrog. After that, I had to scrub the patio and lose the painting.
I walked nine millimeters through sleet storms and typhoons to get to school every morning, wearing only a scarf and a pair of panties. We had to learn medicine and underwater basket weaving, all in the space of fourteen centuries.
Mom worked hard, making leather houseplants by hand and selling them for only eight quarters each. She had to control every houseplant five times.
Dad worked as a truck driver and earned only forty-one quarters a day. We couldn't afford any pianos, so we made do with only a flash drive.
In spite of all the hardships, we grew up excitable and insane.