Fine, I won’t talk about your brother anymore. I know it was hard growing up like that, running every day to catch a school bus that was always already gone, with him on it. It’s like looking outside your window, watching the clouds, those nice ever-changing shapes, only to realize the last pancake is gone. You would play “See Emily Play” so many times that it would lose its shape; you never learned to sing it well, it was always too fast and too happy, miss the whole point of it. You would pretend, like every girl your age, and your husband was a successful businessman, with two kids and dogs on the lawn. It is now a little too late for you, stuck in that 90’s adult contemporary mellow pop. What is left of all of that, imaginary friends and all, is some not-so-funny dark humor, the kind of humor you hate your aunts for, always bitching about being single and blaming it all on high insurance rates and a broken home. - postbop