Back in February, my parents informed me that I wasn't executor of their will.
EVIL KRISTIE WAS.
I was shocked! Scared! Fearful that she would sell our parents' beautiful home once they kick it and turn it into a shelter for refugees! Native Americans, LIVING IN MY BEDROOM. Ecuadorian orphans riding the child-size bike my dad's going to buy me! Dogs and cats and abused iguanas, fucking chilling on my balcony.
I was pretty upset, so naturally, I demanded an answer from my father upon hearing the news.
Dad: You know we made Kristie executor of the will, right?
Me: WHAT?! I'm the oldest! (I said, as I stomped my feet.)
Dad: But you're 24 and still write blogs about puking.
At the time, I vehemently denied it.
But I guess my blogs--just like Shakira's hips--don't lie.