He pointed at the paper. “I want you to write me a description of every foot you’ve put wrong since we met. Make sure I can read your writing. You have five minutes.”Write about every foot I’d put wrong. I peered down at my feet.I started to write: My left foot is a size eight point five. It has a high arch, and my big toe is longer than my second toe. There is a light smattering of hair on the top of my foot. I paused and stuck my left leg out, studying my shoe. Right now I am wearing Nike Frees for m—“Bring me your paper.”I glanced at my paper. “I’m not done yet.”“One . . . two . . .”I brought him the paper.

This is your last chance to go home, son.” It was the loudest I’d heard him speak.I froze.Cock, meet jeans. Jeans, please contain cock.

Anything else you want to discuss before we begin?”“Who cuts your hair? You should run them through with their own thinning shears. You have a wonderful face, and so much wasted potential for—” He stepped forward and grabbed my ear. “Ow!

You should have tried the eggplant parmesan she tried to hoist on me at the church bake sale. No wonder her children turned to Satan. He probably showed up as an angel of light and promised them a decent meal.

We're a society of brats, fighting over the same toys. That, for me, is the closest we come to be inherently evil as a people. It leads to selfishness, inflexibility, and impatience -- among so many other traits that are ugly and harmful. We're combative, competitive, petty, and suffer from one fatal flaw that I can never get my head around. We recognize behavior in others that makes us insane, while turning right around and doing the exact thing to someone else.

I must have cried myself out. The tears stopped falling and I breathed in through my nose. I stood up and looked down at my baby sister lying there. I kissed my fingertips and touched her forehead. "Goodbye, brat," I whispered. "Stop calling me brat."Caelyn's eyes opened. Her irises were blood red. She gave me an impish smile and bared her fangs. Little sisters suck...