Your arms are plump. A boy's arms should not be plump.
Your sister has never, ever pointed out that the liver spots on the right side of Nana’s face resemble the Big Dipper.
When Nana asks for a pint of gin and a pack of Newports, your sister doesn’t tell mom; she goes and gets the goddamned booze and cigarettes.
You read Tuesdays With Morrie to your Nana.
Your Nana’s pretty sure you’re gay. And she doesn’t like “the gays.”
If you ever had a chance of edging your sister out in the “Nana’s Favorite” stakes, you blew it when you rolled over her foot with her own wheelchair. How the fuck did you manage that, anyway?
