You wanna come over on Saturday? I am throwing a Hollywood Jackass BBQ. My sister has been purchased by a Movie Star and will be shipped to LA soon, so I thought, hey, let's have a goodbye party that insults her dreams. Sister pays for everything, naturally. Because she is reaching for the stars and I am drowning in the gutter.

Right now this doesn't feel great, a Sisterless Chicago. There is a perky blonde flight attendant setting up candles in my sister's room. Television watching is again shameful, and who wants to anyway, without cable, or a Sister to laugh at my jokes? I went to a party this weekend, no Sister to stop the endless river of beer to my belly, and nearly died of alcohol poisoning. I am feeling acutely and pathetically lonely and she only moved out this morning.

With no one to ask about my outfits, and no one to lay around with, I fear I will become calcified and hard. St. Renegade as Eleanor Rigby, with cats I pretend are boyfriends, and hobbies I pretend are friends. I will most likely drink myself to death.

If I could only remember how I survived during the fifteen years I did not live with my sister, then maybe, maybe I can make it. What comforts me during this icky, bleaky, needy time is that when Sister eventually leaves the Movie Star--and don't kid yourself, fancy, she will leave you--Movie Star will be unable to dress herself, make a decision, watch inane TV, or recapture her sense of personal agency. Take that, Sister-Purchaser!

So, anyway, come over on Saturday, five-ish. Bring some of those brats with cheese bits inside that Sister loves so much. Soon she will have nothing to eat but edamame, and will cry that she ever left us.