Siblings Crazy Quotes

But I’d rather look back and regret something I did when I was young and crazy, than look back and regret something I never had the courage to do, and realize it’s too late.

-Do you love this girl ? -I'm fucking crazy about her. -Fucking crazy I've gathered. But I asked if you love her. I'm talking true, enduring, unconditional, hold-her-hair-while-she's-pucking-from-the-morning-sickness love.

Family: the most important thing of all. My siblings may drive me crazy at times but they are my blood. They’re all I’ve known. My family is me. They are my life. Without them I walk the planet alone. Forbidden, Tabitha Suzuma

You can't fight hatred with hatred and expect anyone to listen to you. You can only try to lessen it with humor, wit, truth and commonsense. If that doesn't work run like hell, while they throw rocks at you.

I'd miss you. I'd miss you like crazy. I don't see how any man with a beating heart and rushing blood wouldn't

Close your eyes, Maxon." "What?" "Close your eyes. Somewhere in this palace, there is a woman who will be your wife. This girl? Imagine that she depends on you. She needs you to cherish her and make her feel like the Selection didn't even happen. Like if you were dropped in your own out in the middle of the country to wander around door to door, she's still the one you would have found. She was always the one you would have picked. She needs you to provide for her and protect her. And if it came to a point where there was absolutely nothing to eat, and you couldn't even fall asleep at night because the sound of her stomach growling kept you awake—" "Stop it!" "Sorry." "Is that really what it's like? Out there... does that happen? Are people hungry like that a lot?" "Maxon, I..." "Tell me the truth." "Yes. That happens. I know of families where people give up their share for their children or siblings. I know of a boy who was whipped in the town square for stealing food. Sometimes you do crazy things when you are desperate." "A boy? How old?" "Nine." "Have you ever been like that? Starving?...How bad?" "Maxon, it will only upset you more." "Probably, but I'm only starting to realize how much I don't know about my own country. Please." "We've been pretty bad. Most time if it gets to where we have to choose, we keep the food and lose electricity. The worst was when it happened near Christmas one year. May didn't understand why we couldn't exchange gifts. As a general rule, there are never any leftovers at my house. Someone always wants more. I know the checks we've gotten over the last few weeks have really helped, and my family is really smart about money. I'm sure they have already tucked it away so it will stretch out for a long time. You've done so much for us, Maxon." "Good God. When you said that you were only here for the food, you weren't kidding, were you?" "Really, Maxon, we've been doing pretty well lately. I—" "I'll see you at dinner.

I'd rather look back and regret something I did when I was young and crazy, than look back and regret something I never had the courage to do, and realize it's too late

If you are lucky enough to have a childhood friend, try your hardest to grow old with them. These friends are a unique, irreplaceable breed. These friends lived through curfews and Polaroid pictures with you. These friends know your parents and siblings because they had to call your house first to speak with you. Your memories are not frozen in time on social media, but live on nonetheless. Most importantly, they remember the person you were before the world got ahold of you, so they have this crazy ability to love you no matter what. They are the living, breathing reflection of where you have been. And so, just when you think you’ve lost yourself for good, they are there to bring you face-to-face with your true self, simply by sharing a cup of coffee with them. As your world grows and becomes larger and more complicated than your backyard, even if you establish a life elsewhere, I hope your childhood friends remain lifelong allies, because mine have saved my life on more than one occasion.

Someone should start answering,” Cain says, leaning up. “She’s got that crazy look in her eyes, and they’ll follow her lead. You’ve spent too long pissing them off.” Cain is officially my new favorite sibling. I recant that when he reaches down and scratches his balls with a firm look of concentration on his face. Man, with the effort he’s putting into that, they must really itch… I just threw up in my mouth.

Because I never thought of you as a sibling. Because I want you as a woman and because I’m considering hell as a permanent resident as long as I get to be with you. Because I feel jealous and fucking crazy whenever anyone gets close to you. Because I want to be your first and last and fucking everything.

Anyway, gotta go. Just wanted to tell you how hot you look.” My boyfriend leans in and smacks a very loud kiss on my lips, which I’m pretty sure is captured by every news camera and cell phone in the rink. Instinctively I look up at the jumbotron. Sure enough, the screen is frozen on a shot of Blake kissing me. THE KISSCAM STARTS NOW, FANS, it screams. “Cheezus,” I mutter. My five siblings are probably laughing their asses off right now. “Babe. You said cheezus.” “I did no—yeah.” I grin up at the loud, crazy, incredible man I love. “I guess I did.

You will encounter resentful, sneering non-readers who will look at you from their beery, leery eyes, as they might some form of sub-hominid anomaly, bookimus maximus. You will encounter redditters, youtubers, blogspotters, wordpressers, twitterers, and facebookers with wired-open eyes who will shout at from you from their crazy hectoring mouths about the liberal poison of literature. You will encounter the gamers with their twitching fingers who will look upon you as a character to lock crosshairs on and blow to smithereens. You will encounter the stoners and pill-poppers who will ignore you, and ask you if you have read Jack Keroauc’s On the Road, and if you haven’t, will lecture you for two hours on that novel and refuse to acknowledge any other books written by anyone ever. You will encounter the provincial retirees, who have spent a year reading War & Peace, who strike the attitude that completing that novel is a greater achievement than the thousands of books you have read, even though they lost themselves constantly throughout the book and hated the whole experience. You will encounter the self-obsessed students whose radical interpretations of Agnes Grey and The Idiot are the most important utterance anyone anywhere has ever made with their mouths, while ignoring the thousands of novels you have read. You will encounter the parents and siblings who take every literary reference you make back to the several books they enjoyed reading as a child, and then redirect the conversation to what TV shows they have been watching. You will encounter the teachers and lecturers, for whom any text not on their syllabus is a waste of time, and look upon you as a wayward student in need of their salvation. You will encounter the travellers and backpackers who will take pity on you for wasting your life, then tell you about the Paulo Coelho they read while hostelling across Europe en route to their spiritual pilgrimage to New Delhi. You will encounter the hard-working moaners who will tell you they are too busy working for a living to sit and read all day, and when they come home from a hard day’s toil, they don’t want to sit and read pretentious rubbish. You will encounter the voracious readers who loathe competition, and who will challenge you to a literary duel, rather than engage you in friendly conversation about your latest reading. You will encounter the slack intellectuals who will immediately ask you if you have read Finnegans Wake, and when you say you have, will ask if you if you understood every line, and when you say of course not, will make some point that generally alludes to you being a halfwit. Fuck those fuckers.

Who didn’t want to dip into the deep end of someone else’s childhood and meet all the usual suspects—the strict parent, the competitive siblings, the crazy aunt?

Bella Swan: Jasper? Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help? Jasper Hale: Well just your presence alone, your scent, will distract the newborns. Their hunting instinct will take over, and drive 'em crazy. Bella Swan: Good, I'm glad. [Jasper nods and begins to walk away] Bella Swan: . Bella Swan: Hey, [Jasper turns around] Bella Swan: how do you know so much about this? Jasper Hale: I didn't have quite the same upbringing as my adopted siblings. [Rolls up sleeves and shows Bella his arms, which have bite marks on them] Jasper Hale: . Bella Swan: [Hops off Jeep] Those bites are like mine. Jasper Hale: Battle scars [smiles] Jasper Hale: . All the training the Confederate Army gave me was useless against the newborns, but still, I never lost a fight. Bella Swan: Hey, this - this happened during the Civil War? Jasper Hale: I was the youngest major in the Texas Calvary, all without having seen any real battle. Bella Swan: Until...? Jasper Hale: Till I met a certain immortal... Maria

Her parents had a strict rule that no one was allowed to move out until they were married. Lauren’s siblings were damn near in their late twenties and still lived at home, she thought that was crazy. Lauren

I’ll bet he misses it.” “Almost as much as I miss him being on the road.” She frowned. “You don’t really mean that.” “Mostly not.” “Good. But I do sort of get it,” she said slowly. “The siblings-driving-you-crazy thing. My sisters . . . well, they’re perfect. As far as my parents are concerned.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. They’re married.” “And that’s perfect, huh? What about you? You’re successful, right? Your column is pretty big.” “Oh, it’s huge,” she said, her tone overdramatic, earning a chuckle from Cole. “I’m kind of a big deal. But I don’t have a husband, so . . . my parents think maybe I’m not such a big deal.” “So, you’re the black sheep.” “Baaaaa.” “Nice.” “Thanks.

Harry leaned back, his hat over his inscrutable face. “Well?” Ben nudged him. “Thomas Paine, or a nubile beauty from Sicily?” “Clearly Thomas Paine. I’d be asleep now in my bed.” “Do you remember the name of the street they live on?” “Let’s see...Crazy Street? Cuckoo Street? Commitment Street? Cranial Injury Inflicted by Enraged Sibling Street?” “Canal Street! Thank you.” “I’m going to stop speaking.” “Harry, admit it, if you weren’t so utterly uninterested in all women save Alice, you would be sitting on this train yourself.” “Ben Shaw, I hate to point out the startlingly obvious, but I am sitting on this train myself.” “Exactly!” “Ugh.” “I’m surprised to learn that Lawrence is the world leader in the production of cotton and woven textiles. Are you?” “Stunned.

The best companies aren’t families. They’re supporters of families. Allies of families. They’re there to provide healthy, fulfilling work environments so that when workers shut their laptops at a reasonable hour, they’re the best husbands, wives, parents, siblings, and children they can be.

Not a single family finds itself exempt from that one haunted casualty who suffered irreparable damage in the crucible they entered at birth. Where some children can emerge from conditions of soul-killing abuse and manage to make their lives into something of worth and value, others can’t limp away from the hurts and gleanings time decanted for them in flawed beakers of memory. They carry the family cross up the hill toward Calvary and don’t mind letting every other member of their aggrieved tribe in on the source of their suffering. There is one crazy that belongs to each of us: the brother who kills the spirit of any room he enters; the sister who’s a drug addict in her teens and marries a series of psychopaths, always making sure she bears their children, who carry their genes of madness to the grave. There’s the neurotic mother who’s so demanding that the sound of her voice over the phone can cause instant nausea in her daughters. The variations are endless and fascinating. I’ve never attended a family reunion where I was not warned of a Venus flytrap holding court among the older women, or a pitcher plant glistening with drops of sweet poison trying to sell his version of the family maelstrom to his young male cousins. When the stories begin rolling out, as they always do, one learns of feuds that seem unbrokerable, or sexual abuse that darkens each tale with its intimation of ruin. That uncle hates that aunt and that cousin hates your mother and your sister won’t talk to your brother because of something he said to a date she later married and then divorced. In every room I enter I can sniff out unhappiness and rancor like a snake smelling the nest of a wren with its tongue. Without even realizing it, I pick up associations of distemper and aggravation. As far as I can tell, every family produces its solitary misfit, its psychotic mirror image of all the ghosts summoned out of the small or large hells of childhood, the spiller of the apple cart, the jack of spades, the black-hearted knight, the shit stirrer, the sibling with the uncontrollable tongue, the father brutal by habit, the uncle who tried to feel up his nieces, the aunt too neurotic ever to leave home. Talk to me all you want about happy families, but let me loose at a wedding or a funeral and I’ll bring you back the family crazy. They’re that easy to find.

First of all, your very existence is so miraculous you should feel seen and celebrated! First, the odds of you being born are one in a million because your mom carries over one million eggs during her lifetime. Crazy, but that’s not even close to the mathematical phenomenon you are. Based on recent research, scientists have figured out that the egg that formed you was choosy and could determine which of your father’s 250 million sperm cells it wanted to connect with. If the egg that created you chose any other sperm, your sibling would be holding this book because you never would have been born.

I have auditory processing challenges. I often don’t catch what is said and I’m always asking people to repeat themselves. People whispering in a lecture would drive me crazy and I’d have to get up and move somewhere else! She is highly sensitive. She dislikes fireworks, balloons popping, vacuums, and too many people talking. She would say the noise hurts her and makes her feel sick. She hears things more loudly, sees things more clearly and feels things much more than others do. She also can hear what everybody is saying in the house, so we really have to watch what we say! – Siblings of highly sensitive person

LIVE TO YOUR OWN DEFINITION OF ENOUGH. You can at least please yourself. If your expectation is ‘pleasing others,’ you have no control over doing so, because the toxic personality will keep redefining the standard in such a way that you can never measure up. The thing to keep in mind about a toxic person is that you are ‘darned if you do’ or ‘darned if you don’t.’ They are going to be frustrated with you, regardless of your behavior. You cannot be governed by their frustration. Keep in mind that they use the frustrations of others as a tool to manipulate, control, and intimidate. They also have endless lists of expectations. Just as you get close to doing everything on the list, Aaron will change the list. He can never let you be enough.          “When you see the insanity of this treadmill, you will come to realize that toxic people are ‘crazy makers.’ They drive you crazy trying to please them. The crazier your life becomes, the more in control they become; and because you are going crazy, the focus can be on your aberrant behavior. You are the one out of your mind, and they are the ones who are justified. Most toxic people were raised that way in their families. They were never enough as individuals, as children, or as siblings, so, what’s the big deal? Not measuring up, not being enough, trailing barbs, constant criticism, or blame-fixing is normal to them.

Surround yourself with positive influences. When I think about the times I’ve excelled the most in my life, I was always around people who were like-minded and pushed me in a positive way. In order for a plant to grow it needs to be in the right environment and it needs nourishment. My coaches and my fellow students at the studio gave that to me. Likewise, if you put a plant in the dark and you don’t ever water it, it’s going to die. And if you’re not growing, you’re dying! So be aware and cautious of your surroundings: Is this the right place for me to grow? You can’t choose your family, but you can choose your peers. Love your crazy siblings and parents, but don’t hang with people who try to distract you and pull you from your path.

When my prince had fallen, the spirit ofthe depths opened my vision and let me become aware of the birth of the new God. The divine child approached me out of the terrible ambiguity, the hateful-beautiful, the evil-good, the laughable-serious, the sick-healthy, the inhuman-human and the ungodly-godly.129 I understood that the Godl3o whom we seek in the absolute was not to be found in absolute beauty, goodness, seriousness, elevation, humanity or even in godliness. Once the God was there. I understood that the new God would be in the relative. If the God is absolute beauty and goodness, how should he encompass the of life, which is beautiful and hateful, good and evil, laughable and serious, human and inhuman? How can man live in the womb of the God if the Godhead himself attends only to one-half of him?131 If we have risen near the heights of good and evil, then our badness and hatefulness lie in the most extreme torment. Man's torment is so great and the air of the heights so wealc that he can hardly live anymore. The good and the beautiful freeze to the ice of the absolute idea/32 and the bad and hateful become mud puddles full of crazy life. Therefore after his death Christ had to journey to Hell, otherwise the ascent to Heaven would have become impos- sible for him. Christ first had to become his Antichrist, his underworldly brother. No one knows what happened during the three days Christ was in Hell. I have experienced it.133 The men ofyore said that he had preached there to the deceased.134 What they say is true, but do you know how this happened? It was folly and monkey business, an atrocious Hell's masquerade of the holiest mysteries. How else could Christ have saved his Antichrist? Read the unknown books of the ancients, and you will learn much from them. Notice that Christ did not remain in Hell, but rose to the heights in the beyond.135 Our conviction of the value of the good and beautiful has become strong and unshakable, that is why life can extend beyond this and still fulfil everything that lay bound and yearning. But the bound and yearning is also the,hateful and bad. Are you again indignant about the hateful and the bad? Through this you can recognize h()w great are their force and value for life. Do you think that it is dead in you? But this dead can also change into serpents.136These serpents will extinguish the prince ofyour days.

Most of the guests left the rehearsal dinner at the country club; the remaining group--a varied collection of important figures in both of our lives--had skittered away to the downtown hotel where all of the out-of-town guests were staying. Marlboro Man and I, not ready to bid each other good night yet, had joined them in the small, dimly lit (lucky for me, given the deteriorating condition of my epidermis) hotel bar. We gathered at a collection of tiny tables butted up together and wound up talking and laughing into the night, toasting one another and spouting various late-night versions of “I’m so glad I know you” and “I love you, man!” In the midst of all the wedding planning and craziness, hanging out in a basement bar with uncles, college friends, and siblings was a relaxing, calming elixir. I wanted to bottle the feeling and store it up forever. It was late, though; I saw Marlboro Man looking at the clock in the bar. “I think I’ll head back to the ranch,” he whispered as his brother told another joke to the group. Marlboro Man had a long drive ahead, not to mention an entire lifetime with me. I couldn’t blame him for wanting a good night’s sleep. “I’m tired, too,” I said, grabbing my purse from under the table. And I was; the long day had finally set in. The two of us stood up and said our good-byes to all the people who loved us so much. Men stood up, some stumbling, and shook hands with Marlboro Man. Women blew kisses and mouthed Love you guys! to us as we walked out of the room and waved good-bye. But no one left the bar. Nobody loved us that much.

We can’t walk through the house like this--we’ll make a mess.” Ryder’s jeans are soaked through and caked with mud. I’m wearing shorts, but my bare legs are spattered all over. “We’re going to have to strip here,” I say, shaking my head. “Just leave it all in a pile. I’ll toss it in the wash after lunch.” He just stares at me, wide-eyed. “What? Now?” “Yeah, you go first,” I say, amused by the blush that’s creeping up his neck. “Geez, Ryder. It’s not like I haven’t seen you in your underpants before.” I have vague memories of Ryder running around Magnolia Landing’s lawn wearing nothing but superhero undies. And after all the years of shared beach houses and hotel suites, well…like I said, we were more like siblings when we were little. “If it’ll make you more comfortable, I’ll turn around,” I offer. “Nah, it’s fine.” He reaches for the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion. And then I remember why this was a bad idea. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his tanned, sculpted chest, his narrow waist, and jutting hip bones. Oh, man. What was I thinking? I swallow hard as he unbuttons his jeans and slides down the zipper. Boxers or briefs? That’s all I’m thinking as he peels down the wet denim--slowly, as if he’s enjoying this little striptease. He steps out of them gracefully and tosses them into a heap beside his shirt before straightening to his full height, facing me. Oh. My. God. I exhale sharply. The answer is boxer briefs, heather-gray ones. And right now they’re clinging to him wetly, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He looks like a god. A six-foot-four, football-playing god, and I am staring at him with my mouth hanging open like some kind of pathetic freak. Snap out of it. “Sorry,” I say, averting my gaze. My cheeks are burning now. I probably look like a clown. That’s what happens when a fair-skinned redhead like me blushes. “If you…um…want to shower. I mean, you know--” “I’ll just go put on something dry for now. We really need to eat and then get that stuff out of the barn.” I just nod, biting my lower lip. I can’t even look at him. This is crazy. “Your turn to strip,” he says, and my gaze shoots up to meet his. He’s smiling now, his dimples in full effect. “Ugh, just go and change.” I cover my eyes with one hand and flap the other toward the hall. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five,” he says. “Great.” I let my hand drop only when I hear his footsteps move away. Then yeah, I’ll admit it--I allow myself a nice long look at his backside as he walks away from me. And let me tell you, it was well worth the look.

You look like a goddess,” he murmured as he raked his eyes down her form. And she melted into a puddle. “Thank you.” She tried to sound cool and sophisticated. “I much prefer wearing a gown that’s not too tight.” “Except where it should be.” He dropped his gaze pointedly to her bosom. The frank admiration in his eyes made her glad that she’d let Betty guide her choice for tonight. After that other scandalous gown, she’d been reluctant to wear anything low cut, but this one did look beautiful on her, even with its décolletage. Salmon had always been a good color for her, and the satin rouleaux trim made her feel pretty and elegant. “So it’s presentable enough for dinner with your family?” she asked. “They don’t even deserve to see you in it.” The low rumble of his voice made her breath catch in her throat. “I only wish that you and I could-“ “You do look lovely,” said another voice. Lord Gabriel came up from behind Oliver, dressed all in black as usual. A look of pure mischief crossed his face. “Sorry I’m late, Miss Butterfield, but thank you, brother, for keeping her company until I arrived.” Oliver glared at him. “What the devil do you mean?” “I’m taking the young lady down to dinner.” “That office should be left to her fiancé, don’t you think?” Oliver bit out. “Pretend fiancé. You have no real claim on her. And since you had her to yourself all day…” Lord Gabriel offered his arm. “Shall we, Miss Butterfield?” Maria hesitated, unsure what to do. But Oliver was a danger to her sanity, and his brother wasn’t. So she was better off with Lord Gabriel. “Thank you, sir,” she said, taking his arm. “Now just wait one blasted minute. You can’t-“ “What? Be friendly to our guest?” Lord Gabriel asked, his face a mask of innocence. “Really, old boy, I didn’t realize it mattered that much. But if it upsets you to see Miss Butterfield on the arm of another man, I’ll certainly yield the field.” Lord Gabriel’s words seemed to give Oliver pause. Glancing from Maria to his brother, he smiled, though it didn’t nearly reach his eyes. “No, it’s fine,” he said tightly. “Perfectly fine.” When they headed down the hall with Oliver following behind, Lord Gabriel flashed her a conspiratorial glance. She wasn’t sure what the conspiracy was, but since it seemed to irritate Oliver, she went along. The incident was only the first in a series that continued throughout the week. Whenever she and Oliver found themselves alone, even for a moment, one of his siblings popped up to offer some entertainment-a stroll in the gardens, a ride into Ealing, a game of loo. With each instance, Oliver grew more annoyed, for no reason that she could see. Unless… No, that was crazy.

Do you ever find yourself engaged in negative chatter in your head? You might have a good idea, but you immediately put yourself down and say, “That’s crazy,” or “How could I possibly do that?” Or, perhaps that voice tells you that someone – a parent, a spouse, a partner, a sibling, a friend – won’t approve? We all have thoughts like these from time to time, and we often believe them. When that happens, we keep ourselves stuck, running in place, playing small and safe. That’s okay. There’s usually a reason you have these thoughts or feelings – and we’re going to uncover all of that in this book. But first, let’s be clear: wherever you are in your life journey is okay. It’s where you are meant to be right now. For without all the experiences that led you to this point, and without all the experiences that you are having right now in the present, you wouldn’t be who you are today. None of it is wrong. In fact, all of it is right, because it has brought you to this place, ready to read this book – and get unstuck.

How many siblings do you have?” “Three sisters. The oldest is Charity. She’s twenty-eight. Then there’s Serenity, who is twenty-four. And Hope is twenty-two.” Mason’s eyebrow raised slightly, and I knew where his thoughts probably headed. Our names. Yes, we were all named after virtues. And yes, I was fully aware of the ridiculousness. “So…Charity, Serenity, Hope and Felicity?” “Between you and me”—I leaned toward him—“Charity is the most selfish person I know. Serenity is borderline crazy and nobody is more pessimistic than Hope. And me…well, I’m a ball of anger.” He laughed. “I wasn’t going to say a thing.” I stared at him. He grinned. “Okay, I was. And point taken.” I smiled. “My sisters are actually great. But so help me God, I’ll never give my children matching names, nor will I choose ones that will forever be their defining characteristic. I mean, c’mon, it’s like we were set up for failure.” He laughed. “So what’s your full name?” “Felicity Anne Daniels.” “Your initials are—” “Fad. Yes. I know. My parents are awful, and I can never get anything monogrammed.” “Hey, it’s not so bad. I’m named after a jar.” “Doesn’t ‘Mason’ originate from, like, a stoneworker or something?” “Yeah, but my mom literally got it from the jar. Apparently, she loved eating my great-grandma’s homemade preserves while pregnant with me. One day, she’s staring at the canning jar and thinks I should name my baby Mason. The rest is history.” I covered my mouth to hide my laugh. “Well, it could be worse. You could be named after what was in the jar.” “No shit. I’m pretty sure if I’d been a girl I’d be named Strawberry.

It was quite common for households in towns like mine to have BB rifles, commonly called slug guns. These were air rifles that shot very tiny soft lead pellets called slugs. They weren’t that lethal unless you shot at very close range, but they could blind you if you got shot in the eye. Most teenagers had them to control pests like rats, or to stun rabbits. However, most kids used them to shoot empty beer cans lined up on the back fence, practising their aim for the day they were old enough to purchase a serious firearm. Fortunately, a law banning guns was introduced in Australia in 1996 after thirty-five innocent people were shot with a semi-automatic weapon in a mass shooting in Tasmania. The crazy shooter must have had a slug gun when he was a teenager. But this was pre-1996. And my brothers, of course, loved shooting. My cousin Billy, who was sixteen years old at the time – twice my age – came to visit one Christmas holiday from Adelaide. He loved coming to the outback and getting feral with the rest of us. He also enjoyed hitting those empty beer cans with the slug gun. Billy wasn’t the best shooter. His hand-eye coordination was poor, and I was always convinced he needed to wear glasses. Most of the slugs he shot either hit the fence or went off into the universe somewhere. The small size of the beer cans frustrated him, so he was on the lookout for a bigger target. Sure enough, my brothers quickly pushed me forward and shouted, ‘Here, shoot Betty!’ Billy laughed, but loved the idea. ‘Brett, stand back a bit and spread your legs. I’ll shoot between them just for fun.’ Basically, he saw me as an easy target, and I wasn’t going to argue with a teenager who had a weapon in his hand. I naively thought it could be a fun game with my siblings and cousin; perhaps we could take turns. So, like a magician’s assistant, I complied and spread my skinny young legs as far apart as an eight-year-old could, fully confident he would hit the dust between them . . . Nope. He didn’t. He shot my leg, and it wasn’t fun. Birds burst out of all the surrounding trees – not from the sound of the gunshot, but from my piercing shriek of pain. While I rolled around on the ground, screaming in agony, clutching my bleeding shin, my brothers were screaming with laughter. I even heard one of them shout, ‘Shoot him while he’s down!’ Who needs enemies when you have that kind of brotherly love? No one rushed to help; they simply moved to the back fence to line up the cans for another round. I crawled inside the house with blood dripping down my leg, seeking Mum, the nurse, to patch me up. To this day, I have a scar on my leg as a souvenir from that incident . . . and I still think Billy needed glasses. I also still get very anxious when anyone asks me to spread my legs.

I remember growing up I never wanted to be around my siblings. And would hate when they tried to follow me anywhere. Now I miss them like crazy !

I've been waiting for you to use your gavel all evening, Your Honor." God, please, no! Those were the last words on earth Vansh ever, ever, wanted to hear his oldest sister say to her judge husband. Ever. Yash, who was generally not the sort of guy who snorted with laughter, snorted with laughter so violently that Nisha and Neel jumped apart like someone had fired a cannon. Nisha's hands pressed into her face. "No. No. Nononono. What the hell are you all doing here?" "Not waiting for Neel to use his gavel, that's for sure," Yash said, still howling like a hyena. Which, to be fair, Vansh was doing as well. Nisha charged at Yash. Neel grabbed her around her waist. As a circuit court judge (with a gavel), Neel obviously saw enough crazy shit on a daily basis that he was entirely unfazed by any Raje family shenanigans. He held Nisha in check while laughing into her hair, and in the end she broke down and started laughing too, embarrassed though the laughter was. "If either one of you tells anyone, I'm going to chop you into little pieces and pass you through a mulch shredder," their sister threatened. "Who let her watch Fargo?" Vansh asked, and Neel looked heavenward.

So even though I told you to never marry a man like him, don’t judge a book by its cover. Just because he’s bald and cheap doesn’t mean he’s not a good man. He allowed all of his siblings to fail because he had failed so frequently and so hugely. When you’re the only son, there’s a ton of pressure to be something great. And all that pressure turned him into a super fucking weird, crazy diamond.

How crazy do I make you? Insane. To the point I can't decide if I want to run from ye or kiss ye until neither of us can breathe.

Did you say extraterrestrial life?' asked the reporter, amused. She wasn't buying this. Nobody believes the weirdos, even if the US military is behind it. Weird but easy to be expected after what I have been through. Who could believe that travel between other worlds was remotely possible? After hearing enough people tell me that I was crazy, including aunts, uncles, cousins, my parents and my siblings; it was easy for me to believe that I was. Why should society behave any different in regard to someone else?