Rooster

For six years I basked in my parents’ attention. Solely me. I was the axis of their happiness, existence and purpose.   And then they decided that it was important that I have a “brother” so I wouldn’t be alone. At first, I threw tantrums. I already didn’t like this unborn thing. I was hoping mum hadn’t asked God for the baby yet. That’s another story. Well, this is how it goes anyway. I thought God made babies. Seriously. I thought only once a woman was married, she could go to the temple and kneel down before God and tell him she was ready to have a baby. God would then sculpt a child and slide it down the invisible tube that connected heaven to a woman’s belly. Now that I think of it, I was absurdly imaginative even as a child. Getting back to that unborn “thing”, the idea of a puppet brother, one whom I could dictate my terms on, began to grow on me and I suddenly couldn’t wait for God to slide the baby down.
        Just when everyone had begun picking blue for the boy, science had to burst our bubble. Ultra sound results showed we should have picked pink instead. Great. Even the servants at home slouched and sighed. They were desperately looking forward to a boy child in the household. I am certain that they had decided to crown the unborn thing the “king” of their little troop and and submit to be lead to overthrow six years of my supremacy and establishment as the Royal Highness of the household, my parents’ attention and my Grandparents’ adoration. I couldn’t care to conceal the fact that I was bossy. It was far too evident to hide.   This one is worth mentioning. I always harbored slightly destructive aspirations. In the 5th grade, my best friend and I went as far as to declare that we would both marry Osama bin-Laden. The terror and power that he commanded simply fascinated us. But we were moral enough to decide to eventually turn him in to the authorities. That way, we would have saved the world and enjoyed the luxuries of being Osama bin-Ladin’s wives....