Sibling rivalry

Hello, and sorry for the delay. Long story, to be recounted below.

I casually mentioned that Johnny and I will be going into town for "Christmas Shopping". Read: Buy cheap crap for worthless family members and then stuff our faces with muffins, milkshakes, hot dogs, buy Stephen King and James Herbert books. Yay! We don't like most shopping.

AOS overheard. And because Ickle Sammie is going on an outing with only ONE boy, and no others, this is a date. Divvo. And dates = MAKEOVER TIME!!! Yes, it's horrible. Makeup (eww) hair (I honestly don't know what she could do with my hair - lets say it went frizzy) and finally...false nails. OH. MY. GOD. (Sorry, had to be done.)

I tried to remove them but they were stuck. No movey. What did she use, No More Nails? Heh. So, acetone-soaked fingers and achey hangnails later, I light some soothing candles... wait, who am I kidding? I light my dish of lighter fluid. It has a similar effect. My intention was to forget the horror in a spot of meditating... flaming dish, Firestarter music, chill... piss off AOS, no big loss.

“My” nails caught fire. On my right hand. One trip down A&E later by mum and not with Catharine, more burns dressings and me now typing in my leather driving gloves. I wear them a lot. I also have globs of acrylic at the ends of my fingers, and a slightly gross noise happens when I pick at it. I think they’re now permanent.

So no trip with Johnny, painful hands, and I was very angry, seeing as Cat’s arse was the cause of all this. I burst into her room (where she was performing vile acts - but fortunately as close to fully clothed as she gets – with faeces features), brandished my hand in her face and yelled “THIS IS ALL YOUR BL**DY FAULT!!!” I then told her to never, ever, ever do such things to me again or I will give her a pyromaniac haircut. You know what they are, dear reader. She had a go at me for burning her favourite picture of faeces features and using it to graffiti the toilets. Basically, we went over everything we did to each other, including my “assimilation” of some of her Barbies with my own when I was 8 and she was also 8 (there's only a 10-month age gap between us because Mum forgot that the idea of not having children shortly after childbirth only works when breastfeeding). Her Barbies were as packaged, mine were post-apocalyptic cyborg punks merged into some post-apocalyptic Star Wars action figure play fantasy. Nuff said. MINE WERE COOLER!

The upshot is, we’re not talking to each other. Or getting each other Christmas presents, which is good, because I didn’t want to spend any money on pink sparkly fluffy crap, and I didn’t want to receive any pink sparkly fluffy crap either.