Siblings are like roaches. Where there's one, there's two or three.

I was raised an only child. It was a sweet life. I had more toys than God. I had a servant who I could beat with a stick. That looks bad in print, but believe me, it was hilarious. I had everything my heart desired. I even got things desired by the hearts of the poorest kids in town just so I could break them in front of those filthy fucking street urchins. My family paid a popular cheerleader to be my girlfriend during my awkward high school days. She could suck a golf ball through a water hose. The star quarterback's water hose, of course. Our relationship was just for show, as she so often reminded me when I said unseemly things like, "Good evening" and "Thank you for not recoiling from my nerdly visage."

But lately, I've become the middle child of three. That means I relinquish most of my toys as soon as I get them, wear hand-me-downs, get blamed for most things evil, and am ignored all other times no matter if I have broken bones or am on fire.

So what the hell happened? Turns out my biological father tried to repopulate Earth long before the apocalypse. A few years back, I discovered an older sister. I couldn't wait for the slumber parties where I would try to sneak a peek of her friends changing into their see-though nightgowns. But it seems that adults don't have as many slumber parties as kids in 80s movies.

And now I've found I have a little brother to beat up. But seeing that he's 14 and I'm 32, he would probably kick my ass. Luckily, he lives on the east coast and I've never met him and I hate teenagers worse than I hate olives.

I just want my only-child status back from these (literal) bastards.

Shout out to my sis, who's actually pretty cool and shares my fondness for alcohol and hating teenagers.