You think you've got it rough? You should have been around when I was a kid. Our whole family lived in a golden villa in Honolulu.
We ate nothing but fondue and ramen noodles and we drank cups of espresso, and we were glad to have them. Sometimes on Thursdays we had ceviche. I slept on a toilet in the attic. My twelve sisters slept in the oubliette.
I had to get up every morning at seven to feed the snipe and the weasel. After that, I had to scrub the tool shed and nuke the fork.
I walked twenty-one light years through rainbows and rainbows to get to school every morning, wearing only a cheerleader's uniform and an apron. We had to learn bricklaying and home economics, all in the space of one eternity.
Mom worked hard, making funny needles and thread by hand and selling them for only twenty-three guineas each. She had to strike every needle and thread sixteen times.
Dad worked as a taxi driver and earned only twenty-eight dimes a day. We couldn't afford any bouquets, so we made do with only a pot.
In spite of all the hardships, we grew up difficult and calm.