Fancy Fish or the Last Cookie
Dinner at my house is the worst. I dread it. Yeah, I live in a
mansion. With maids. And butlers. And personal chefs. And
chauffeurs. And all of that other stuff like ten bathrooms and
seven bajillion fluffy pillows. Sure, it sounds just fantastic. But
it’s really not. I don’t have “normal”
family conversations or days when I can eat out of ice-cream
cartons. I get fancy little cracker trays with turkey and cheese
and those little swords hold it all together. Or I get
fillet-minions with sauce swirled around it on a fancy plate.
You see, my dad’s a lawyer, the best one in New Jersey, which
causes him to have cases all of the time. My moms a doctor, so
she’s always working over time at the hospital. They
aren’t happy. They don’t get along. And I’m
My parents, they don’t care about me. Actually I
wouldn’t doubt if they don’t know how old I am.
I’ll see mom once a day. Maybe two, if I’m lucky. And
my dad? Psh, I barely know what he looks like anymore. In fact, I
wouldn’t be surprised if he’s having an affair.
All of my friends have five, maybe six, siblings. I’m the
only child in my family, and I’m jealous of them. They all
say I’m the lucky one here, but their the ones who always
have someone to hang out with or to slam doors and scream at. I get
maids to tell what to do, and chefs to tell how to cook my
It sort of depresses me, when I’m home alone. It’s
quiet, and the only noise I ever hear is my lemo taking every one
out and about. It gets lonely and boring here. Sometimes I just run
outside and sit in the road because I know no one is ever going to
But when it gets to be dinner time, I sit in my extremely large
living room with imported furniture and eat fancy cooked fish and
watch reruns of Happy Days while my friends are sitting at their
crowded table fighting with their siblings over whose going to get
the last cookie.