Relatives = suck

I’m still at the coast house, but I’m hiding at the library. (Come on, where else would I go?) Why? My cousin is here. Although there’s the probability that we share some DNA (although you could never tell by looking at us) I don’t get along with her particularly well. Do you know how, sometimes, you’re in a room with someone and you can hear that horrible grating noise your personalities make as they clash, and the other person is totally oblivious? Yeah. (Or is that just me? Whatever. It usually is.)

Also, my cousin is, to borrow my dad’s phrase for her, completely batshit insane. And it might surprise you to learn this, but I am just the tiniest bit sarcastic. No, really, I am. Anyway, we tend to have conversations like this:

Cousin: I think I’ll go to South America and write the Great American Novel and apply to grad school while I’m there. (This is her actual plan for the next year; I thought about making something up, but the truth is more absurd and entertaining than anything I could invent.)

Me: *snerk*

Thus, it’s best if I stay here with my Latin books until the library closes, because if I go home I’m going to have to give myself timeouts every 30 seconds.