I Don't Like His Skinny Jeans

Landing on a runway in Miami, I was grounding myself and most likely Willy, too. Lucky for Bree, she was already an adult and in a way, on her own.

Wilfred, wide-eyed and jet lagged warily got up. Her pale face had an angered expression painted delicately upon it. Eight hours non-stop with Bree could probably do that to you. Bree was truly a sweet girl, but with her ADD and air-headedness she could be a bit of a pain. First of all, ADD isn't all that great. It's a pain, she constantly is saying she's bored, but when she finds interest in something, she loses it as soon as she finds it. Then she's running up and down the walk-way while people with drink carts are trying to get through. All the while, she's asking for something that she probably has in her hand. It's like an old lady with the energy and personality of a four-year-old. I bet you can only imagine.

"Can I sleep.... and not drive a vehicle that could possibly crush a small animal?" Willy asked, manac.

" 'Course. I'll drive!" Bree chirped, still very awake. She refused to take her Ritalin before we got to the airport. Willy smacked the keys into Bree's hand.

"Keys.... Bree's..." Willy mumbled.

"Are you okay to drive? I mean, when was the last time you slept?" I asked my sister.

"I'm fine, I've stayed up for five days straight before!" She replied reassuringly. Oh, yes, very assuring.

"Hey, we're in Miami... Trick...?" Willy noted, bringing up the polka-dot bikini song.

"Fred." I stated.