she's always bringing me down, sneaking in at three AM smelling like some other guy's cigarettes, and I roll over and pretend to be asleep because

what else can I do? she laughs too loudly at inane things and channel surfs until I feel like screaming, damn it girl, just pick a show and let me watch it, I don't even care anymore.

she can't cook for the life of her and intermittently she sets the kitchen on fire, smoke billowing up from the stove and singeing my mother's potholders, and she doesn't even notice because she's too busy beating out a song with a spoon on the lid of a frying pan and singing off-key.

she's never in the mood, or so she claims (I swear she's on her period twice a month), so why the hell does she carry birth control in her purse, little white numbered packet clear as anything?

she sulks and paints her nails a hideous shade of magenta, and she spends all of my money on idiotic shoes that she can't walk in. coffee tinges her breath bitter and stains her brain neurotic, and she nags me to take out the trash, fill out those forms, eat a salad for once and, (pinching at my waist), to lose another ten pounds so that I can fit into that stupid preppy shirt she bought me with our rent money.

she hits me when she's angry and her words are dark red as she calls me every name in the book, and a few more, and I can think of a couple for her, but I keep my jaw wired shut and plaster on a smile so that she'll turn away and go back to putting on her lipstick. she's a bitch, but for some reason we stay together, either because what would our friends think? or because she's dead sexy.