“You still hit like a bitch, motherfucker.”
- Grandma, Don’t Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood (1996)

I knew quite well how irritating my little brother Kevin could be because he’d been on my nerves since he was 2. By the time he was 9, I’d hemmed his li’l ass up so many times I’d lost count. But it ain’t like he didn’t deserve it. I mean, damn. He would sit outside my bedroom door and make the most retarded noises, like “Reee reeee reeee” (OMG I can still hear him), or he’d say, “UB, I bet you didn’t know…!” and then read something from the dictionary or the encyclopedia aloud. He’d eat all the cereal before I came down for breakfast, fart when I walked by, shoot peas out of his nose at me at the dinner table, chew with his mouth open and SMACK so loud I HAD to smack HIM, but then he’d wail like a big ass baby so I’d have another noise to deal with. And he’d mess with my stuff all the damn time. My momma made me let him ride my bike and the dang pest left it in the driveway just in time for my momma to back over it in the van cuz she didn’t see it. When she rolled off, the frame and wheel were as warped as if they were a wax statue left out in the July Texas sun.

So, needless to say, I could honestly understand why somebody else would want to beat him up. He got on EVERYBODY’s nerves like that. I don’t know how a third grader could be so good at being so worrisome to so many people. The kid deserved a crown. Only problem was, the crown he got was crown after crown of knots upside his head by a fourth grade bully.
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