It was a bright summer day in beautiful San Diego. There was the typical Garcia family get together in the backyard of my lovely cousin Brittany’s house. This lady had to have been at least sixty five now and she still talked of her pageants. Me, well I am a model and I cannot stand those pageants and the way they walk and talk and gees Louise are they some mean girls, they are cold hard shiny plastic. That is all I can say.

Anyways, I was walking by nonchalantly as to get food, but trying to avoid my chatterbox of a cousin. I made it halfway into the kitchen when I was called upon. Brittany was sitting, ready to tell me another one of her pointless stories that she tries to make interesting. She pulled me down into a seat next to her and began to ramble.

“Listen here Yelli. This is how it all happened. Yeah, I was in a battle, a battle against Barbies. It all started one Sunday afternoon, way back. I rolled my little cart in with all my dresses and shoes and make-up and hair stuff and and yeah. The room was filled with them darn Barbies, everyone just as done up as the one next to her. My equilibrium was thrown off when someone sprayed some Viva la Juicy and then there was a cloud of powder. I went to my station and got all set up and began to apply my war paint. Finally, Billie came back and yelled, ‘Everyone go line up. Pronto!’ and together we marched out. During the first battle, I wore a gigantic fluffy cupcake dress. Then I changed and got prepared for perhaps the toughest event of my little young life. I was strapped and stapled and glued into my uniform and off I went. I made it to the stage just fine in my seven inch heels, but as soon as I began my stage pattern the worst possible thing occurred. My shoe came off of my foot so I was forced to stomp down so I could continue with the rest of my battle. The most obnoxious ruckus was made and everyone was left shaking in their positions as an aftermath of my stumble. Everyone noticed. Everyone. I was over and done with. My battle was over and there was no chance of me winning the war. Dang Barbies. I returned to my dressing room-”

I was losing interest so she added, “Then I found five dollars! Oh, and l-e-t me tell you about this one Barbie…” I walked away. I know that was probably the meanest possible thing to do, but I did it. I had to get away. I was over hearing about her dumb incident and babbling about something that does not interest me in any way whatsoever. Why must my cousin be blessed with such good looks and feel it necessary to tell me about her pointless pageants? I hate her stories. That is all.