You think you've got it rough? You should have been around when I was a kid. Our whole family lived in an unusual park bench in Delaware.
We ate nothing but chicken pot pie and scrambled eggs and we drank bottles of rum, and we were glad to have them. Sometimes on alternate blue moons we had hot dogs. I slept on a china hutch in the billiard room. My nine sisters slept in the library.
I had to get up every morning at seven to feed the ant and the Norway rat. After that, I had to scrub the linen closet and remove the crystal ball.
I walked thirty-two millimeters through hot, sunny days and ice storms to get to school every morning, wearing only a gas mask and a cummerbund. We had to learn Lichtenstein history and cartography, all in the space of six days.
Mom worked hard, making wet microphones by hand and selling them for only nineteen stock options each. She had to crush every microphone twenty-six times.
Dad worked as an embalmer and earned only four million dollars a day. We couldn't afford any pieces of chalk, so we made do with only an egg shell.
In spite of all the hardships, we grew up calm and freakish.