“You’re just an attention whore!” He said, sputtering with self-righteous rage. “Always on that Instabook or Facegram, tweaking.”
An almost indiscernible shake of her head was underlined with an audible eye-roll and exasperated huff.
“How is that any concern of yours,” she said, lifting one eyebrow quizzically.
“You have no real relationships, just imaginary friends living in your computer,” he said, smirking like only a brother can. “Your whole identity is wrapped up in plastering your face all over the interwebs.”
“And, you are a heroine addict,” she said, a shutting her laptop with a loud click. “You are obsessed with mothering women who want to save you. They are pitiful, and you are non-rehabilitative.”
“Wha… wha… wah, wah,” he could not form a coherent sentence.
“You couldn’t have a normal relationship if you paid for it,” she was up from her comfy spot on the couch, and poking her brother in the chest with each spiteful word.
“I’ve had regular girlfriends before,” he said, trying to defend against being stabbed by his sister’s well-manicured fingernail. “What about Lisa?”
“Harrumph! Lisa?” She was snapping her fingers in an exaggerated Z shape. “The Lisa who wanted to do a complete make-over of you? New clothes, new shoes, new haircut? That Lisa?”
“She was okay,” he said, opening his shirt to examine the many, tiny red crescents beginning to appear on his skin.
“It took six months for the perm and frosted tips to grow out,” she said, twisting a lock of his hair between her fingers. “Your hair has never been the same. You’ve got terminal split ends.”
“There was Beth, she didn’t try to fix me.” He closed his shirt and pushed his long hair behind his ears.
“No?” She grabbed his arm and pushed up the sleeve to show a stylized crucifix on his left forearm. “Not fix, but certainly ‘save’.”
“I still get Christmas cards from Rev. Finley,” He slapped at her hand, and pushed his sleeve back down, buttoning the cuff.
“Oh, and Stella.”
“Stella wanted to marry me,” he said with a wistful smile.
“Stella wanted to rescue you and turn you into her pet,” she dismissed this past liaison with a gagging gesture. “She wanted the two of you to dress alike. Did you keep those skirts? You never had the legs to pull off that fashion statement.”
Ensconced in their old Lazy-Boy recliner, he crossed his legs and his arms, shielding himself from her onslaught.
“Well,” he began. “How are your friendships any better? You’ve never even met any of them in person.”
She squirmed back into her space on the couch.
“They have never lied to me, they have never asked me for money or stolen from me, they have never tried to change me, they have always been supportive,” she ticked off each item on her fingers. “And, if any of them piss me off, I can block them from my life, unlike your creepy, IRL stalker, Mikala.”
“They just want to know what you eat for every meal, see what your feet look like, to watch vids of stupid stuff that dumb cat does, and to look at photos of the inside of every public bathroom you’ve ever visited,” he said. “No, that’s not weird. Attention whore!”