Shawty Was Not An Arsonist

I'm participating in a Blog Hop instigated by Emily and Ashley with the topic of Remember the Time...  Today we're writing about that time we listened to the radio.  Mine came out in the form of a letter to my younger sister.

Dear Katie,

When we were young, we shared a room.  You probably remember.  It was the worst.  For both of us. But probably worse for you.  You claim that I always promised a reward of candy after you cleaned the room.  The candy jar was sitting high on a shelf only I could reach.  You say I usually declined to deliver on said promise.  That is 100% accurate.

In the interest of coming to my own defense, which I am always quick to do, I would say I probably did give you candy a few times.  The problem lies in the fact that we shared a room for 14 years so a few pieces of candy means you averaged one piece about every 5 years.  That's pretty jacked up.

I also remember that we had to share a radio.  If I know myself, I would guess that you didn’t get to choose the radio station.  Like ever.  I recall your cute little self, always wearing a hat like Blossom, singing along to my songs.  I also remember that you didn’t always know the words.  That was annoying and unacceptable.  So, the mandate came down from Emily, the Room Tyrant, that you could not sing unless you knew all the words.

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When I was your age, however, I would happily butcher Dire Strait's Walk of Life all day long.  I mumbled the whole song into my ice-cream-scoop-microphone.  I nailed the "woohoo" part every time though.  No one made me stop because I didn't know the words.  And no one should have stopped you.

What I’m trying to say was that 20 years ago, my hypocrisy knew no bounds. I’m not sure how to make this better, dear sister, but I shall try.   I have mailed you a peace offering; a jar of candy.  Please put it on a shelf you can reach and enjoy it on a whim.  You needn't clean a thing.

I can’t help the "no incorrect singing mandate" I made when you were 5.  Take heart in the knowledge that I can’t figure out the words to any song written within the last 10 years.  Sadly, I am growing senile and my coolness is largely gone.

Remember when I thought Rihanna wanted someone to be under her arm forever. Ever. Ever. Eh. Eh. Eh.  It just makes so much more sense to be under an umbrella.  Thanks for straightening that out for me.

Or when I wanted to impress you with my knowledge of pop culture so I told you to call 911 because Shawty was lighting the dance floor on fire.  I was wrong.  Shawty was not an arsonist.   Shawty was just a super skilled dancer and Mr. Kingston was simply comparing her to fire.  I get it now.  What a neat simile.

I envy you.  You’ve grown hip and cool and are no longer under the thumb of your Room Tyrant.  I, however, stay home all day and have become at least 97% out of touch with society.  My five your old taught me something new about YouTube yesterday.  Twitter baffles me to my core -all the @ and the #.  I have to reference the urban dictionary just to understand the bag boy at the grocery store.  Ridiculous.

My sincerest apologies for my reign of terror.

Your Elder(ly) Sister,

Emily